Jambo Jambone X closed his eyes. He said another prayer. It rhymed perfectly. "Lord, save my ass, or my ass is grass."
Then a frantic voice rang out. "Nobody better shoot that gook!"
"Anyone who shoots the gook gets capped!" a second voice warned.
Jambo Jambone X opened his eyes. They kept opening until they were very wide.
Coming up Compton was a wedge of blue varsity jackets. It was the Crips. And they were rolling.
One of the Blood called out, "What's this gook to you?"
"Cool guy made me promise to find him."
Jambo Jambone X blinked.
"Cool guy with thick wrists and fast hands?" he asked.
"No. Cool guy with thick wrists and fast feet. Our man Rollo jump him from behind. Rollo too slow. White guy gave out a Kung Fu kinda kick. Rollo, he roll one way and Rollo's head roll another."
Jambo Jambone X made the sign of the Cross, even though technically he considered himself a Black Muslim. But for the whispered words of a dying Blood, it might have been his own head rolling every which way.
"You listen to that dude," Jambo cautioned his fellow gang members. "He know what he be talkin' about."
Dexter scoffed. "You shermed, Jambo. Them's Crips. Big and blue as life."
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Jambo warned.
The old Korean, who up to this point had remained silent but unconcerned, stepped around Jambo Jambone X. He shook his wide emerald sleeves back from his skinny little arms. Jambo could tell he meant business.
Jambo whispered, "The one with the gold earring, he be my brother. Don't hurt him too much."
"That is up to him," the old Korean said in a cold tone.
"If you gotta kill him, I try to understand," said Jambo.
"You will lay down your weapons," said the old Korean.
"Crips'll smoke us," Dexter pointed out.
"They will not."
"Good," said Dexter, grinning thinly. "Because we gonna smoke them."
The fan of muzzles turned, as if mounted on the rail of a circling battleship.
The Crips froze. They were not carrying their weapons in their hands.
And a moment later, neither were the Blood.
They went, "Ouch! Ow! Yeow! Yikes!" as a flurry of campaign posters zipped by their gun hands, inflicting wicked and painful paper cuts and forcing them to drop their weapons to the dirty pavement.
The blizzard of posters fell at their feet. Some fell faceup. Some facedown. The upward-facing posters caught the attention of the Blood, now well named because of the conditions off their gun hands. Looking up at them were the liquid eyes of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
"He the guy you want us to vote for?" Dexter gulped.
"He is," intoned the wise old Korean-the wisest, kindest Korean ever to roll through the South Central District.
"He got my vote," Dexter promised.
"Mine, too."
"First, he must know that you are loyal," Chiun suggested.
"What we gotta do?"
"These posters must be placed in appropriate places in this neighborhood," said the wise old Korean.
"You got it!"
"And we get the old guy," said the approaching Crips.
"Who you calling 'old'?" protested Jambo Jambone X. "This here's my man. Yo, Master. Tell these cheeseeaters."
"Begone, eaters of cheese," intoned the Master of Sinanju sternly. "I will have nothing to do with you."
"White guy wants you," said the spokesman for the Crips, pulling out a .357 Magnum. "So you come."
Other Crip armaments came into view then. The Blood, their weapons on the ground and their hands dripping red, gave a collective, "Oh, shit."
The Blood dived for their guns. The Crips picked their targets. Jambo Jambone X threw himself in front of the old Korean. A bloodbath impended.
Remo Williams picked that moment to saunter around the corner.
"Nobody do anything stupider than being born," he said.
Nobody did. The sound of his easy, no-nonsense voice caused faces on both sides of the imminent bloodbath to freeze. Eyes went round. A few crotches darkened from the contents of fear-struck bladders.
"In fact, everybody better lay down their guns," he added.
This instruction was obeyed with military precision. Pistols of all types clicked as they were carefully laid on the sidewalk.
"Look what I found for you," Jambo Jambone X said, pointing to the Master of Sinanju.
"He lie," said the Crip spokesman. "We found him. You owe us quarters."
"No. I get the quarter."
"I'll give you all a quarter, if you shut up," said Remo.
"I want the quarter," Jambo insisted. "It gonna be my lucky piece."
"Or I can juggle a few heads for the entertainment of the survivors," Remo added.
"You the man," Jambo said instantly. "Whatever you say."
Remo strode up to Chiun, whose hands found themselves in the sleeves of his kimono.
"I have nothing to say to you, white."
"Yeee!" said Jambo. "Don't call him no names!"
The old Korean sniffed disdainfully. "He is white. He will always be white. I will call him what I choose."
The eyes of the assembled Crips and Bloods went from the face of the old Oriental to that of the white dude, their pupils reflecting various degrees of fear, horror, and consternation.
"What you sayin'?" Jambo hissed. "You can't talk to the dude that way. He take your head off."
"He is a pale piece of pig's ear," intoned the old Oriental.
"Yiii!" hissed the assembled Crips and Bloods. They backed away. They had no desire to see their jackets soiled when the old Oriental's neck stump began to pump blood all over the place, because his head wasn't there to receive it.
"You gonna take that?" asked a Crip.
"Little Father," the white dude said simply. "I have just one thing to tell you."
"I am not interested, stealer of sweethearts."
The Crips and Bloods shrank further. They were fighting over a chick. Somebody was bound to die.
"Cheeta Ching is going to cover Esperanza's speech."
"Quick!" Chiun shrieked, pointing to the paper snowfall of campaign posters at their feet. "The posters! They must be in their proper places! The streets must be cleaned! I do not want to see a speck of dust when the beauteous Cheeta comes!"
The Crips and Bloods frowned, like a bas-relief of basalt idols.
"He crazy?" Dexter demanded of the white dude.
"Better do what he says," Remo put in. "When he gets excited like that, even I get nervous."
The faces of the assembled Crips and Bloods went from the cold mask of the white dude they all feared to the frowning face of the wispy Oriental, with stupefaction growing in their eyes.
"You, afraid? Of him?" asked one.
Remo nodded. "He taught me everything I know. Everything."
That was all the Crips and the Bloods needed to hear. Madly, they scooped up Esperanza campaign posters. They stole push brooms and barrels from hardware store displays. They got to work on Compton Street, determined to make it presentable for the old Korean who had taught the downest white men in the world everything he knew.
Chapter 15
Cheeta Ching had not slept in two days. There were hollows under her sharp, predatory eyes. Her brain felt like it had been dipped in Alka-Seltzer fizz.
A face haunted her. A strong, white face with prominent, almost Korean cheekbones and deep-set hollow eyes. Those eyes had pierced her ambitious soul. His name was burned into her soul.
"Nero." She spoke the name aloud, tasting its unKorean vowels. "Nero."
She had never met anyone like him. Well, maybe once before. Years ago.
She had almost forgotten the experience. A strange man had broke into her apartment and tied her to a chair. After he had perversely dressed her in a flowing Korean native dress.
Cheeta had thought she was going to be raped. So she had resorted to the formidable weapon that had brought her to national prominence: her razor-sharp tongue. Cheeta heaped abuse on the man. Threatened him. Taunted him. Nothing seemed to work. It was a first. No man-from network presidents to her husband-had ever failed to wither under a Cheeta Ching tonguelashing.