"The hell with the posters."
"We'd like you to reconsider."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, we gotta run your dumb ass through a rotary press to protect our own dumb asses. Sorry."
It was then that Gregory Sagadelli noticed the little gook standing off to one side, looking stern and confident. It was as if he were looking at the tiny fellow for the first time. There was something cold and deadly in those eyes. They were like steel ball bearings.
Gregory Sagadelli allowed himself to be helped to his feet. "Put up the damn posters," he snarled.
He strode over to the tiny Oriental. He looked down. The Oriental looked up.
"Anything else you want?" Gregory Sagadelli asked.
"Yes. Your endorsement of my candidate."
"Bull! We can't endorse someone who doesn't buy union. What'll we tell the press?"
A low voice whispered in his ear. "Maybe this is the exception that proves the rule."
That afternoon, with the entire ambulatory membership of the California Pressmen's Union Local 334 out affixing Esperanza posters to walls all over L.A. County, Gregory Sagadelli called a press conference and announced that the entire union was coming out for Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
There were only three reporters present. Such was the state of union activity in the nineties. One said, "We understand they don't use union printed placards."
"This is the exception that proves the rule," said Gregory Sagadelli with a straight face. Or as straight as it could be, with his jaw permanently skewed to the left.
"We just picked up our first union endorsement!" Harmon Cashman screamed. "I'm hyped! I'm really, really hyped!"
"Calm yourself," said Enrique Esperanza, hitting the TV remote control. "It is a small victory. We will need much, much more in the weeks that remain."
"But this is the first union endorsement of the campaign! Sometimes that's all you need to get the ball rolling!"
"The ball, as you say, is already rolling."
"What I don't figure is, how did it happen?"
"It is simple. Chiun."
Harmon Cashman dug into his pockets and pulled out a minipack of Oreo cookies. "The little guy? How'd he pull it off?"
"Because there is nothing he cannot do. You must understand, Harmon. He is Sinanju."
"What's that?"
"Sinanju is a house of assassins."
At the sound of the word assassin, Harmon Cashman spit out the half-chewed sticky pulp of an Oreo sandwich cookie. He stared at the dark blob on the rug, as if he were contemplating gobbling it back up. His eyes, sick with fear, went to the bland face of Enrique Esperanza. "Ricky . . ."
"Yes. I did say 'assassin,' " Enrique Esperanza said calmly. "For many, many years the assassins of Sinanju worked for governments all over the Old World, protecting thrones and preventing wars."
"You're joking!"
"Have you ever known me to joke?"
"Never. But I had to check. Okay, let's say this is true. What's this Chiun doing here?"
"Obviously he was sent here."
"To kill you?"
"Hardly. To protect me."
"I don't get it."
Enrique Esperanza fixed Harmon Cashman with his soft, dark eyes. "It is very clear, Harmon. The Master of Sinanju has been sent here by his employer to protect my life and see that the election turns out a certain way."
"Who would that be?"
"I am not sure, but everything in my being tells me it is the President of the United States."
"Oh, him," said Harmon Cashman. "The thank-you-note king."
"Do not hold grudges. Because if what I believe is true, then our campaign has the blessing of the President, which virtually assures us of success."
"Okay," Harmon said, digging out another chocolate cookie. "I'll buy it. But an assassin?"
"Think of him as a protector."
"And the Italian guy?" Harmon snapped his fingers. "What's his name . . . ? Remo?"
"No doubt CIA. Probably a control agent. He is of no importance. What is of significance is the fact that the President of the United States employs an assassin."
"I guess," Harmon Cashman said vaguely.
"In spite of the congressional prohibition against assassination as a tool of Executive Branch policy."
Harmon Cashman stopped in mid-bite. He looked up.
"Are you saying we have some political dirt on the President?"
"Such an unsavory way of putting it. Let us say that the President inadvertently has betrayed to us probably his greatest secret."
"How's that gonna help the campaign?"
"Harmon, my friend. Sometimes it is enough to know a secret, without turning it to one's advantage," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza quietly.
Chapter 14
The next day a gleaming, white-chocolate Mercedes tooled through Chinatown.
It drew up before an ornate temple, and Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, resplendent in white, emerged. Harmon Cashman followed.
The Master of Sinanju was there to greet him. He bowed once. Enrique Esperanza bowed in return.
Esperanza looked around. His own image stared back from every wall and lamp post, and although he could not read the calligraphy under the multitude of identical faces, the sight of his repeated image gave him a warm feeling of hope.
"You have done well," he said.
"I have only begun," Chiun replied. And, raising his voice, the Master of Sinanju began to chant in a singsong voice.
The words were unintelligible. But the reaction was immediate.
From out of shops and tenements came curious Chinese.
They gathered around as Chiun lifted his arms and began to speak. He gestured broadly, as if scolding the crowd.
"Sounds like a harangue," whispered Harmon Cashman, in a worried voice. "Maybe I'd better break out some Oreos."
"They will not be necessary."
The harangue-or whatever it was-continued.
At the end of it, a sea of blank, bland faces stared back.
"They don't look very impressed," Cashman muttered uneasily.
"How can one tell?" answered Enrique Esperanza, not a care evident in his voice or on his face.
Then, while they were considering edging back to the car, the Chinese began to lift their voices.
"Syiwang! Syiwang! Syiwang!"
"What the heck are they saying?" muttered Harmon Cashman.
"They are saying," said Enrique Esperanza proudly, " 'Hope.' "
In Little Tokyo, it was the same.
Only the word was Kibo.
In Koreatown, it was Somang. To the Vietnamese of Little Saigon, it was Hyvong. Whatever the tongue, it was music to the ears of Harmon Cashman.
"This is incredible!" he breathed. "You can hardly get the Chinese and Japanese to pay attention to local politics. And look at this! If that little guy can do this all over the state," he said enthusiastically, "we got the Asian vote sewed up slicker than a sackful of stray kittens."
"He can."
And once again, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza stepped forward to address the crowd. He spoke in English. The Master of Sinanju translated. The crowd applauded whenever the old Korean lifted his thin hands, as if responding to an applause sign.
Harmon Cashman could only marvel at the sight.
"If we could only move the white people this way," he said wistfully, as they walked back to the waiting Mercedes.
"We will," promised Enrique Esperanza.
"How? There aren't enough Oreos on the planet to hand out to everybody. If there were, our campaign war chest could go broke trying."
"Harmon," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, "I wish you to alert the press that I will give an important speech at four o'clock this afternoon."
"Done. Where?"
"In South Central."
"The barrio!"
"South Central, yes."
"But that's the Hispanic and black district!" Harmon protested. "You got the Hispanic vote in your hip pocket."