A wide red convertible screeched around the corner. There was a brown-skinned man behind the wheel.
Squatting in the open backseat, like a machine-gunner in the rear of a jeep, was another brown-skinned man hanging off a fifty-caliber machine gun, which swayed on a pedestal mount.
The convertible straightened. The man at the machine gun got the perforated barrel pointed where he wanted it to point.
He wanted it to point in the general direction of Barry Black, Junior. Then he wanted it to open fire on Barry Black, Junior, because with a percussive stutter, it did.
Fifty-caliber bullets recognize few obstacles. These chopped through the campaign car, chewed up a fire plug, and reduced the Barry Black for Governor campaign headquarters to a ruin of chipped brick, broken glass, and shattered, bleeding bodies.
The convertible zoomed past, leaving Barry Black, Junior spread-eagled on the sidewalk.
The candidate for governor lay face-up, eyes staring skyward, in a welter of plate glass.
After the sound of the convertible's roar had died away in the distance, Barry Black's lips quirked. His eyes seemed to acquire focus.
Then a low, mournful sound escaped his lips.
"Ommm! Ommm! Ommm!"
Chapter 17
Cheeta Ching was the first news person to arrive on the scene of what the next day's San Francisco Examiner would call "The Nob Hill Massacre."
The police had cordoned off the block. They no sooner had their yellow-plastic guard tape up than the FBI counterterrorist team descended on the scene and tore it all down. They made the police stand off to one side, handling reduced to crowd control.
They were putting up their own guard tape when Cheeta Ching swooped in, like a harpy on wheels.
"I'm Cheeta Ching!" she called, dragging her cameraman by his collar.
She was pointedly ignored.
"I said, I'm Cheeta Ching, you racists!"
"Stay behind the lines, ma'am," an FBI agent cautioned.
"Where's the candidate? I demand to see the candidate."
A hand was raised. It was attached to a long, lean body that lay just outside the guard tape. Cheeta rushed up to the man.
"You have a statement?"
The hand formed a finger. It wobbled unsteadily.
A low moan escaped his lips.
"He's trying to communicate!" Cheeta said breathlessly. "He's trying to point out the candidate for us. Keep trying, you brave person."
"Cheeta . . ." the cameraman said.
"Quiet! I can't hear his moans!"
"Cheeta . . ."
"What!"
"I think that is the candidate."
"Oh my God!" Cheeta said, dropping to her knees.
"Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? America wants to see your wounds!"
"Not . . . hurt . . ." moaned Barry Black, Junior.
Cheeta leaped to her feet. "Then you can wait. I need some wet footage. Somebody find me a bleeding casualty."
They were still carrying out bodies from the demolished campaign headquarters.
Cheeta turned on her cameraman. "You get in there and get some 'If it bleeds, it leads' footage."
"Anyone stepping over the guard tape," a cold voice called, "will be arrested!"
The cameraman looked from the FBI agent to the cold face of Cheeta Ching. Calmly, he stepped over the guard tape, laid down his minicam, and lifted his hands in surrender.
An FBI agent stormed up. "What did I tell you?"
"I work with Cheeta Ching. What's the worst you're going to do to me?"
"I see your point," the agent said. He waved for a cop, saying, "Place this man in protective custody. For his own good."
As he was being led away in handcuffs, the cameraman said sheepishly to Cheeta Ching in passing, "I tried."
"You did not!" Cheeta flared. And while the cameraman, his head hanging low, was hustled into a police van, she recovered the minicam, saying, "Who needs cameramen, anyway?"
Hefting the minicam onto her padded shoulders, Cheeta returned to the prone form of Barry Black.
"Let's do a two-shot, okay?"
"Ommm," moaned Barry Black.
"Do you suspect that the assailants whose attempt on your life here today failed so miserably were the same who attempted to kill me?"
"Ommmm."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"Ommm."
"Obviously in shock," Cheeta said, dropping the camera from her shoulders.
While she was trying to figure out her next move, a glossy-white Mercedes rolled to a halt a block away.
Out stepped Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, Harmon Cashman, and a tiny old Korean man Cheeta Ching recognized at a glance.
"You!" she shrieked. Lugging the minicam, she jumped for the approaching trio. "I need to talk with you,"
Enrique Esperanza said, "I will be happy to continue our interview."
"Not you," spat Cheeta Ching, pointing to the tiny wisp of a Korean. "I mean him."
The Master of Sinanju beheld the vision that swept toward him. His heart leaped high in his throat. His almond eyes widened, and for a moment he was a young man back in Pyongyang, beholding the beauteous Ch'amnari.
"I've been dying to talk to you!" Cheeta said urgently.
"I understand your desire," said Chiun, bowing, his voice tense, his heart a balloon of joy. Remo had granted his deepest wish.
"Great. Where can I find Rambo?"
Chiun straightened. "Rambo?"
"Yeah. Your dreamy friend. The one with the wrists."
"You mean Remo?"
"Is that what he's calling himself now? Where can I locate him? It's urgent!"
"No doubt he is sleeping under a rock, overcome with slothfulness and ingratitude," Chiun huffed. He turned and stalked off.
Cheeta Ching watched him go, her face blank. "What's got into him?"
"We do not know," said Enrique Esperanza. "We have come here to offer condolences to the Black campaign. This is a tragic thing."
"Great quote," said Cheeta Ching. "Mind repeating it for the camera?"
"Why don't you follow us?" Esperanza suggested. "We wish to speak with candidate Black personally."
"Okay, but talk slowly. I'm not used to being my own cameraman."
Barry Black, Junior was still lying on the sidewalk when they reached him.
"I am Esperanza," said Enrique Esperanza in a formal voice.
"Ohhmmm," said Barry Black.
"He keeps saying that," Cheeta pointed out. "I think he's in shock."
"I have just the thing," Esperanza said, kneeling beside the stricken candidate. He took a minipack of Oreo cookies from inside his white coat, undid the top. and placed one in Barry Black's open mouth.
"Chew slowly. Chocolate is a stimulant. The Aztecs knew this."
Somewhere deep in Barry Black's shattered mind, a synapse fired. He began chewing.
A moment later he sat up, saying, "My karma must have gotten mixed up with Yassar Arafat's."
"Do you have any idea who would do this thing?"
"Hey!" inserted Cheeta. "Asking questions is my job. You don't see me running for governor! Not that I couldn't do a better job than any of you men."
"Have you any enemies who would do this?" Esperanza asked in a soothing voice.
"The Democrats. The Republicans. Any Californian who remembers my last term in office. Maybe it's a conspiracy."
"I do not think so," said Enrique Esperanza, helping the man to his feet. "I am Enrique Esperanza," he added, shaking the man's hand.
"Got any more of those nifty cookies?" Barry Black asked.
Enrique Esperanza smiled. He offered the rest of the minipack.
As Barry Black munched away, he said, "Great! What are these things, anyway?"
"Oreos," Harmon Cashman explained. "You don't know Oreo cookies when you taste them? Where have you been?"
"India. Tibet. Nifty places like that. I accomplished a lot. I even grew a beard, but I shaved it. Beards are seventies."
While the minicam recorded every syllable, Enrique Esperanza said, "We must not allow terror and violence to determine the outcome of this important election."