«There is such a young lady,» the waiter said.

«Ummm?»

The waiter said nothing else, so Barenga said, «Well, where is she?»

The waiter looked at the hundred-dollar bill again and without taking his eyes off it, said, «She is in Room 1821. That's on the eighteenth floor. She is with an elderly gentleman of the Oriental persuasion and another young man.»

«He a dink too?»

«A dink?»

«Yeah. A gook. A Jap.»

«No, sir. He is an American.»

Barenga had decided. That hundred dollars was just too much to pay for such horseshit information. He curled it back into his hand and stuffed it into the slit pocket of his dashiki.

«Thanks, man,» he said, backed up and quickly closed the door on the startled waiter.

He turned to Nilsson with a small happy smile.

«How'dldo?»

«Fine, until you stole that hundred dollars from the waiter,» Lhasa said.

In the hallway, the waiter was staring at the closed door and reaching the same conclusion. One hundred dollars was a lot of money. It could buy 50 sheets or maybe enough wood for 10 crosses to burn on someone's lawn, or hundreds of feet of heavy rope for lynchings.

Barenga moved back warily as Lhasa came from behind the door. «Give me back the hundred,» Nilsson said. The gun was still aimed at Barenga, its evil black hole seeming to stare at him in black dark hatred.

Lhasa smiled.

The door swung open behind him. «Listen here, you fucking blootch,» the waiter shouted as he barged into the room. «You owe me.»

The swinging door hit Lhasa Nilsson in the middle of the back and he was propelled forward a few steps toward the bed on which Philander sat. He pulled himself up short, turned to the waiter, who had stopped, speechless, inside the doorway, and squeezed the trigger of the small .25 caliber revolver. A hole opened in the waiter's throat like a red flower opening to greet the sunshine. The waiter's eyes widened. His mouth worked as if he were going to talk, to impart one last piece of wisdom. Then he fell forward onto the rug.

Nilsson moved forward quickly and kicked the door shut. «Get him under the bed,» he snarled. Barenga moved quickly, hoisting the pudgy waiter by the armpits. «Philander, you help me,» he said, his voice dripping hurt.

Philander hopped up from the bed and grabbed the dead waiter's feet.

«Man, you didn't have to do that,» Philander complained to Lhasa Nilsson.

«Shut up,» Nilsson said. «We're going to have to hurry now. The waiter will be missed. Take off his jacket before you put him away.»

Barenga began to open the buttons.

«Tell me,» said Nilsson, «do you wear any trousers under that ridiculous sheet you parade around in?»

Barenga shook his head.

«All right, then, take off his pants too.»

Barenga and Philander stripped the waiter and finally Barenga stood up with jacket and trousers over his arm. Philander rolled the waiter's body under the bed and straightened out the bedspread so it was neat again and would discourage anyone from a random look under the bed.

«Which of you wants to play waiter?» asked Nilsson.

Barenga looked at Philander. Philander looked at him. No one spoke. Being asked to be a waiter was as bad as being asked to tap dance on a watermelon rind.

«One of you has to wheel this cart of food up to Room 1821. Now which one'll do it?»

Barenga looked at Philander. Philander looked at him.

As Barenga looked at Philander, he heard that frightful click again and it froze him in his position. And then the hissing thwap of a shot, and then the first spurt of blood out of Philander's left temple, before Philander dropped to the floor.

«I think he was too stupid to pass for a waiter,» Nilsson said as Barenga turned toward him. «Now you put on the uniform and do it fast. We don't have much time.»

Barenga decided he would take no more time than was absolutely necessary, thus proving to Nilsson his loyalty and absolute trustworthiness. In twenty-two seconds he had peeled off the dashiki and put on the uniform jacket and pants.

Nilsson finished rolling Philander under the overcrowded bed and turned to inspect Barenga.

«I believe most waiters wear shirts,» he said. «I've never seen one before wearing a jacket over his bare skin.»

«I ain't got no shirt,» Barenga said. «But if you want, I'll look for one,» he added hurriedly.

Nilsson shook his head. «Never mind,» he said. «The sight of the jacket should do all right. Let's go.»

They rode up in an empty service elevator. At the eighteenth floor, Nilsson stepped out and looked both ways before motioning Barenga to follow him.

Barenga moved out slowly onto the carpeted floor and began to wheel the car along the hallway, a respectful three paces behind Nilsson. He was a cold mu-fu, this blond, kinky honkey. Barenga was going to keep an eye on him. He didn't act right. He was too quick to pull that trigger. Man, like he was dedicated. He had that look in his eyes like one of those social workers, man, that was always going to do everything and fix everything and make everything right, man, 'cause they had all that love, you know, love. They were so goddamn sure of themselves, man, they was like dedicated, like the minister of the Abyssinian Church, and then at knifepoint, you asked one of them for a penny, and suddenly, they realized everything wasn't going to be as easy as they thought. At least the smart ones learned that. The stupid ones, who were more numerous, never learned nothing. But this cat was funny like, because he knew plenty, but he still had that dedicated look.

Barenga stopped pushing the cart and stepped forward to Nilsson, who had beckoned him with a crooked finger. «Now you knock on the door and when you get an answer, tell them Room Service. When the door opens, I'll handle everything else. You got that?» Barenga nodded.

CHAPTER TEN

Only a few feet away, another man nodded.

Separated from Nilsson and Barenga by the wall of the apartment, Chiun pressed a button, turning off the last of his favorite afternoon television shows. He settled back into full Lotus position and allowed his eyes to close.

Remo, he knew, had gone to look for the in trusive wench. He would no doubt find her; that she could vanish was really too much to be hoped for. That would be simple and in America life was never simple.

It was a very strange country, he mused, as his eyes closed gently. Chiun had worked for too many emperors to believe in the superiority of the masses, but in America the masses were right. Everyone could live in happiness if only people would respect everyone else's right to be left alone. That was all the masses wanted in America, to be left alone. It was the one thing they never got, he reflected. Instead, they got social tinkering, and the tensions and troubles that tinkering caused.

How unlike Sinanju, the tiny village that Chiun was from but had not seen in years. Yes, it was poor by American standards but the people were rich in many ways. Each lived his own life and did not try to live another's. And the poor, the aged, the weak, and the children, they were cared for. It did not require social programs, politicians' promises, and long speeches, just the income from the skills of the Master of Sinanju. For over a thousand years the village had hired out its Master as an assassin, and his labors supported those in the village who could not support themselves.

This was Chiun's responsibility. As he sat with his eyes closed, his mind on the edge of sleep, he thought it had been just and fair, a rich and honest life. The Master of Sinanju had always performed his missions, and the emperors he had served had always paid. Now his «emperor» was Dr. Smith, the head of CURE and Remo's employer. Dr. Smith also paid.