"Today, definitely."
"Bingo is more mighty than Shango?" asked Omphale.
"Shango," said the white confidently, "has nothing on my man Bingo."
"If you do not want our lives, we offer our bodies."
"Bingo has forbidden me from taking the bodies of beautiful women," said the white while he hammered the crate lids back on with no more tools than his hard fist. "I can only have ugly ones. It's the price I pay for having my magical powers."
"Then take us with you and keep us until we are old and ugly like the women the great Bingo has decreed that you enjoy."
"Who said I enjoy them?"
"You cannot leave us here to be tortured and killed by the enemies of our treacherous father, who slew our mothers for no reason."
"Your father the warlord who stole all that UN relief food that was supposed to feed his people?"
"Pah! They are beggars of no value," Omphale answered.
"You eat the food he stole?" the white countered. Omphale scrunched up her face. "It was not very good. Mealy and wormy."
"Then you gotta pay for your meal."
"We will be your love slaves. Bingo will never know."
"Bingo sees all, hears all, knows all. But tell you what. Help me carry this gold out, and we'll see if we can get you to the airport."
"We will do as you say because we respect your god and your mighty manly powers," Eurydice announced.
Remo carried three crates of gold on either shoulder without stooping a micron. Eurydice and Omphale each bent under the weight of one crate apiece.
That way they got every crate up to the veranda. When Eurydice dropped the last crate onto the stacks and fell panting across it, Remo whistled.
The gates parted and the Master of Sinanju padded up, eyes shining.
"Who are these?" he asked, indicating the panting women with a curt nod of his bearded chin.
"The warlord's black-hearted daughters."
"You have been abusing them?"
"If you call honest work abuse, yeah."
Chiun examined the crates with interest. "There is much gold here. You have done well."
"You should have seen what I had to go through to do this."
"You should have seen what I had to do to win my first gold."
"Tell me about it some other time," Remo said. "So, how are we going to get this stuff to the airport? This is camel-flattening gold if I ever saw it."
"We are not."
"Huh?" said Remo.
"They are," said Chiun as an armored column came up the dusty road.
The half-tracks and Soviet-era T-55 tanks deployed all over the compound and a man sporting a red beret and eight gold stars on each shoulder jumped off a half track and advanced confidently.
"I am Major Domo General Supreme Jean-Renoir Bazinda," he announced.
"I could tell by the sixteen stars," Remo said dryly. "You are all war criminals and must be shot."
"Do you have a Federal Express office in this city?" inquired the Master of Sinanju in an even tone.
"Your diplomats will not save you in revolutionary Stomique."
"I will require the gold of my son to be packed well for shipping to an American address I will provide," Chiun continued.
And Major Domo General Supreme Bazinda threw his head back and laughed at the tiny little Asian who dared to threaten the only sixteen-star general on the entire African continent.
As he laughed, he waved for his soldiers to come and stand these interlopers before the villa wall for proper shooting.
Instead, someone handed Bazinda a human head. The head plopped wetly onto one palm, and instinctively Bazinda grabbed it to keep it from falling into the dirt.
He saw that it was the head of his second-in-command, Colonel Avenger Barang. There was a very serious expression on the colonel's face. When he realized what he was holding, Bazinda's face mirrored it almost exactly. Except for the tendril of blood just starting from one corner of Barang's slack mouth.
Bazinda looked up to see the old Asian. His thin fingers were slipping back into the sleeves of his kimono, which closed over the long, sharp nails. Making the connection, Bazinda shuddered.
"If there is not a Federal Express office in Nogongog, I will decree that one be established for your every need," he announced loftily, handing the head to his startled third-in-command, Super Sergeant Mobondo.
"And whistle us up a plane, will you?" asked the white boy with the thick wrists. "We're anxious to be on our way."
"You will not stay for the celebration feast?"
"What's for dinner?" asked Eurydice.
"Oui, " Ornphale chorused, "we have not eaten well in nearly a day. Only old tinned caviar."
"Are these harlots with you?" Bazinda asked.
"No," said Remo.
"In that case," Bazinda said, stepping up to pinch Eurydice on her fleshy arm, "you are both for dinner."
Eurydice and Omphale fell to the ground and beseeched Lord Bingo to intervene on their behalf.
In the end it cost Remo a case of golden apples to take the daughters of Mahout Feroze Anin off the revolutionary menu. He regretted it almost immediately.
"I am your slave," Omphale said, falling to her knees before Remo.
"I need a slave like a fish needs a wheel," said Remo.
"Then I am your love slave."
"You know what Bingo says about love slaves," said Remo.
"Then what will we be?" asked a tearful Eurydice. "You can be our personal stewardesses on the flight out of here," Remo decided.
ON THE AIR GHANA FLIGHT leaving Nogongog, Omphale and Eurydice wanted to know if Remo was someone famous.
Before he could answer, the Master of Sinanju said, "This is being investigated even as we speak."
"Why?"
"Because this poor man's parentage is uncertain. He is seeking his father."
"I am not," said Remo.
"There are those who believe he is the long-lost son of Montel Williams," whispered Chiun.
"Who is Montel Williams?" asked a hovering stewardess.
"Some talk-show guy," said Remo.
"Is he famous?" asked Eurydice.
"He's bald," said Remo. "I'm not."
"And rich," added Chiun.
"I am not Montel Williams's son. Montel Williams is black. I'm white."
"Perhaps," Chiun allowed. "I'm obviously white."
"You have a nice tan," the stewardess said. Omphale shot her a look full of daggers. Eurydice tried to intimidate her with a nail file clenched in a tight fist.
"You would too if you were being dragged all the way around the planet by him," said Remo, indicating Chiun.
"Is it true that you will inherit Montel Williams's millions when he dies?" asked Omphale.
"Montel Williams can keep his money," snapped Remo.
"Others," Chiun inserted, "believe him to be the illegitimate offspring of Clarence Williams the Third." Remo's brows knit together. "Clarence Williams the Third is black, too. How can I be the son of Clarence Williams the Third?"
"If San Fermin, a Christian saint, can be a Moor, you can be the son of Clarence Williams the Third," said Chiun.
Remo looked skeptical. "I don't believe San Fermin was a Moor. He probably had a deep tan."
"And Jesus was black," Chiun added.
"Jesus was not black."
"He was not white."
"Stuff it," said Remo, turning away.
"Master Pak met Jesus," Chiun said casually.
Remo looked interested again. "That so? What did he say about him?"
"He called him a long tallow with a short wick." Remo looked blank.
"That means that same thing as all hat and no cattle."
Remo grunted. "That shows how much Pak knew."
Chiun shrugged unconcernedly. "It has been barely two thousand years. The House is far older."
"Back to Clarence Williams the Third," said Eurydice. "Will you inherit his lands and title when he dies?"
"No.
"
"Could you be the son of Billy Dae Williams?" asked the still-hovering stewardess.
"He's black too," Remo answered wearily.
"You say that like there is something wrong with it."
Remo threw up his hands. "I didn't mean it that way. Look, can we just change the subject?"
The three women were only too willing to oblige. "Are you married?" asked Omphale.
"Or at least separated from your wife?" Eurydice asked.
"I don't have a wife," Remo growled.
The stewardess clucked in sympathy. "Any of us would be willing to marry you to save you from unhappy bachelorhood," she offered.
Remo folded his bare arms. "My bachelorhood is not unhappy."
"Then why are you so cranky?"
"I am not cranky," Remo shouted, storming off to the back of the cabin to sit by himself.
"He is not getting any, is he?" Omphale whispered to the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun shook his aged head sadly. "No sensible woman would have him."
"Why not?"
"It is not obvious? He is incurably cranky."
This made perfect sense to the Air Ghana stewardess, who nevertheless made sure Remo did not lack drinks, food or female companionship all the way across the Asian subcontinent.
"I don't need anything, unless it's information on where that old reprobate is taking me next," Remo snarled.
"I will ask," said the stewardess.
But it was Omphale who came back with the answer, along with a welter of scratches on her face. They were flecked with bits of gold, and remembering the stewardess's nails were gold painted, Remo figured there had been a cat fight over who would carry word to the back of the plane.
Another clue was the fact that Omphale was wearing the stewardess's green uniform, which was very snug in the hips and rather loose at the chest.
Omphale smiled triumphantly. "You are going to Nihon, the old man has told me."
"That's big help," Remo said glumly.
"Where the heck is Nihon?"
"It is the same as Japon."
"You mean Japan?"
"In French, the name is Japon."
"I wish countries would just pick one name and stick with them a few centuries," Remo complained.
"I have always thought this," Omphale said agreeably. "Is there anything I can get you now that I am your personal serf stewardess?"
"Yeah. A parachute."
To Remo's surprise, Omphale came back with a big fat one. Remo used it for a pillow and soon nodded off.
THE SKY WAS the color of lead and oysters. Remo found himself on the terraced side of a red hill. The terraces were paddies, and falling raindrops made them pucker and rill.
Standing bareheaded in the rain was a Master wearing green silk decorated with gold trim. He was ancient but carried himself with ramrod erectness as he approached Remo.
"I am Yong. No Master lived longer than I."
"Good for you," said Remo.
"I slew the last dragon and for the rest of my days drank dragon-bone soup. My days were very long because of dragon-bone soup."
Remo snapped his fingers. "Right. Chiun told me about you. He said you ate every bone so no succeeding Master had any."
"And for my greed I dwell in perpetual rain."
"At least there's rice."
Yong looked Remo up and down critically. "Where is your kimono?"
"Out of fashion."
"Your nails are too short. How can you fight?"
"Oh, I get by."
"The Masters who came after me were wrong. I saved a piece of the dragon's spine." Yong opened his fist. "I give it to you."
Remo took the piece of bone. It was gray and porous. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
"It is powerful medicine. You will know when the time comes."
And Yong walked back into the rain, which increased its tempo upon the beaten ground until the red mud ran.
Chapter 13
They said it was impossible for an American.
For a Japanese it was exceedingly difficult. This was well-known.
For a Korean it was unacceptable even if it were possible. Koreans were not Japanese, no matter what airs they took on. Chinese couldn't do it. Not the best Chinese man who was ever born. Not even if he trained until the end of time.
But for an American it was utterly, absolutely unthinkable.
Yet Wade Pupule had done it. He had become sumo. Becoming sumo, of course, was only the beginning. A first step. And as difficult as it might seem, it was in fact the easiest step.
For Wade, born on Oahu, Hawaii, an American by nationality but of Hawaiian parentage, it was just a matter of reaching his goal weight, which in this case was a well-rounded 350 pounds.
This was accomplished by eating prodigious quantities of fermented bean paste and a thick stew flavored with raw sugar called chanko-nabe, washed down with Sapporo beer.
And beef. Whole sides of steer-which was criticized severely. Not even Kobe beef, raised in Japan-which every Japanese knew was vastly superior to Hawaiian beef and especially Texas beef. Every Japanese, that is, who had never sampled any beef other than Kobe beef.
But the real secret of Wade Pupule's success was a simple one: his mother's meat loaf. It couldn't have been more fattening if it was deep-fried in liquid lard.
When Wade petitioned one of the great sumo stables for acceptance, he sent a grainy photograph that concealed his Hawaiianness and was granted an audience.
"But you are not Japanese," the stable master sputtered upon meeting him. They had just exchanged bows. Wade had gotten down on hands and knees, prostrating himself in a full bow. The sumo stable master had barely nodded his head.
"So sue me," Wade shot back angrily.
To his surprise, the stable master allowed his face to acquire a faint smile of surprise. "Ah, last name Sosumi. You are half-Japanese, no?"
"Yes," Wade lied, immediately adopting the Japanese name of Sosumi. And he was in.
They laughed when Wade Sosumi entered the Jifubuki Sumo Academy. They called him Wahini Boy and Pearl Harbor and Beef Brain. They made him shower last and eat after everyone else was through, even though he had cooked the very food he was forced by his lowly rank to eat cold. They hit him in the head with glass bottles to show their contempt for the Hawaiian-American who would be sumo. And to show his humility, Sosumi was forced to say "Domo arigato" in thanks.
After a while they were calling him Beef Blast because that was the way it seemed when his 350 pounds of solid body fat collided with the shuddering bulk of his worthy opponents. He began to best true sumo in the ring. Japanese sumo. It was unthinkable.
When Sosumi had worked his way up to ozeki-champion-they began calling him Beef Blast-san. Still, they insisted it was impossible for a gaijin to become yokozuna-a grand champion. Culturally impossible, that is. Because in the tournaments there was no one greater or stronger or more agile than Sosumi, a.k.a. Beef Blast-san.
But he had done it, winning the prestigious Emperor's Cup. Japan was rocked. Internally it was a scandal of the highest order. But because the Japanese had been so long vilified as xenophobic, they dared not deny Beef Blast-san what he had rightfully earned in the circle of sumo.
Sosumi Beef Blast-san had fame, women and, most important in Japan, a large house with a spectacular view of Mount Fuji's snowcap-which one certainly required when one weighed 350 pounds.
But having achieved the pinnacle of success in his chosen field, Sosumi still ate his mother's meat loaf every Saturday to keep his strength up. It was overnighted from Honolulu in a heat-retaining box the size of a small safe.
Wade was thinking that hundred-pound meat loafs just didn't get him through the week the way they used to as he wolfed chanko-nabe from a bamboo wok the size of a garbage-can lid while straddling a ceramic throne designed for his special needs when the tiny little man appeared before him.
"You a priest?" Sosumi asked.
"No," said the little ma
n, who wore a scarlet-and-lavender silken kimono. It was not Japanese. Too gaudy. Maybe Chinese.
"Because if you are, I'm no Buddhist. Though I'm sometimes mistaken for him on the street." Sosumi chuckled. His big Buddha belly shook.
Not a wrinkle moved on the old man's papery face-and that was a lot of wrinkles.
"I am no priest," he repeated.
"What, then?"
"I offer you a challenge."
"I'm king of the hill, pal. I don't need any challenges."
"You will fight my son."
"How much does he weigh?"
"Nine stone."
"Give that to me in pounds. I don't know from stones."
"He weighs 155 pounds."
"Never heard of a sumo that skinny."
"He is not a sumo."
"I kinda figured that. What is he, then-suicidal?"
"No."
"You looking to have him bumped off, I'm not your man. I'm a wrestler. All I'd have to do is sit on a 155-pound guy and every bone would break, his internal organs would liquify and I'd be up on manslaughter charges faster than I could say, 'So sorry san.' Which would be my name if it ever happened."
"My son is not sumo. He is Sinanju."
"Never heard of it. Is it like jujitsu? I've seen jujitsu men do amazing things."
"Such as?"
"Saw one once walk up to a guy and just tap him in the clavicle. The other guy went flying backward like he'd been zapped by a live wire."
"I can do that."
"You a jujitsu man?"
The little old man bowed formally. A ten-degree bow. The smallest, most meager bow. As a grand champion, Sosumi had earned a forty-five degree bow. Minimum. Anything less was an open insult.
"I am Sinanju. I am a Master."
"Just a second," said Sosumi, polishing off his chanko-nabe and tossing the empty wok aside. Reaching behind him, he tapped a solid silver handle. From under the rolls of fat spilling over the seat of his ceramic throne came a loud flush.
"Gotta maintain my weight," Sosumi said, standing up and pulling up his cotton britches, which he drew snug with a drawstring. "The Nagoya tournament is this month."
"That is disgusting."
"That's the price I pay to keep my title. In one orifice and out the other. Sometimes I feel like a human shit processor."
"You were bred to battle my kind."
"No, I was bred to battle other sumo."
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