The whistle came again. It sounded different. But when Remo turned around, he saw only passersby minding their own business.
"I haven't ruled her out yet," he said. "For all we know, she was on Nogeira's payroll."
"Speaking of Nogeira, I am receiving ongoing reports of undocumented aliens pouring into California from other states, with the purpose of applying for amnesty and citizenship."
The whistling continued. Remo changed ears. "So?"
"They are registering to vote in record numbers."
"What's that got to do with Nogeira?"
"Before he was deposed, Remo, General Nogeira was heavily involved in smuggling illegals into this country, primarily from El Salvador and other Central American republics."
"You saying this could be part of Nogeira's master plan, if there was one?"
"Esperanza's call for undocumented aliens to come forward and take advantage of these programs has been picked up only by the California media. I cannot imagine how the word is spreading, unless the ball had been started even before the campaign began."
"By Nogeira?"
"By Nogeira."
"Well," Remo said, switching ears again, "I'm going to take Barry Black by the scruff of the neck and shake him a little."
Smith's voice became chilly. "Remo, that man is a registered gubernatorial candidate. You are not to molest or intimidate him in any way."
"What if he's guilty of subverting the process?"
The line hummed. Remo stuck his finger in his free ear to keep out the annoying whistles. It was a moment before Harold W. Smith spoke again.
"We are in the business of upholding the Constitution whenever we can," he said firmly. "Political assassination is a line CURE has yet to cross in any meaningful way."
"There's always a first time," Remo said flatly.
"My instructions stand."
"How about I just talk to Black?"
"I will accept that."
"Good, because I hope you have his home address. He's not in the book."
"According to the latest reports, Black has gone into seclusion. But he is believed to be in his Pacific Park home. At least, the local media believe that. They are virtually laying siege to the house."
Remo groaned. "Oh, no."
"What is it?" Smith asked.
"That means Cheeta Ching is sure to be there, yapping at the head of the pack," Remo said unhappily.
"I am sure you will find a way to avoid her," Smith said dryly.
"Count on it," Remo said, hanging up.
On his way to the car, Remo was accosted by a thinvoiced young man, with a kerchief hanging out his back pocket and another one loose about his throat.
"Hello, sailor," he said, smiling. "Going my way?"
"If your way is what I think it is, not in your lifetime."
"How about a detour?"
"How about you suck your thumb?"
"Not what I had in mind."
Remo tapped the man's right elbow, forcing him to grab his funny bone, but the words sputtering out of his mouth weren't funny.
Remo quieted the man by inserting one of his own thumbs into his mouth and freezing his jaw muscles closed with a paralyzing tap.
"You don't know 'til you try it," he said.
Remo left him sucking on his thumb while walking in circles, trying to shake the pins and needles from his arm.
He still wondered what that whistling was.
The Pacific Park home of Barry Black, Junior could be seen clearly from the foot of the hill where Remo had parked his car.
It was a sprawling Victorian that was equal parts Bohemia and Addams Family. The house was painted a pumpkin-orange, with jet-black shutters. There was a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign over the front door. The weathervane sticking up from the chimney pot was in the shape of a yin-yang sign, and seemed to have rusted one day when there was a brisk east wind blowing.
The house must have been a hundred years old, but the peaked roof was a modern mosaic of solar panels, spaceage satellite dishes, and ordinary Plexiglas skylights.
The steep street leading up to the house was lined with microwave satellite vans. Most were empty. Remo could see the front walk of the orange-and-black monstrosity. That was where the local press had camped out. A few were skulking through the hedges, which had been sculpted, apparently, in the shapes of endangered species. At least Remo thought he recognized a dodo.
Remo also recognized Cheeta Ching. The Korean anchor was at the cellar door, trying to detach the padlock with her teeth.
Spying the van belonging to the local affiliate of the network that employed her, Remo slipped up to it. He was in luck. There was a driver sitting behind the wheel, looking bored.
Remo tapped on the glass. It was rolled down.
"Yeah?" asked the driver.
Remo smiled. "I'm with the medical lab," he said brightly.
"What medical lab?"
"The one Cheeta Ching uses. I got good news for her. The rabbit died."
The driver's bored eyes got unbored. "That is good news! In fact, it's great news! She'll probably be on the first jet back to New York after she hears this."
"You wanna deliver the message?" Remo asked.
"A pleasure," the driver said, bolting from the van.
Grinning, Remo retreated to the backyard of an adjacent house to await developments.
"This ought to be great," he said to himself.
To his surprise, the driver didn't even try to look for Cheeta. Instead, he jumped into the milling mass of media representatives and began spreading the joyous news.
"Cheeta's gonna drop one!" he howled.
The pack broke in all directions.
"Everyone loves good news," Remo chortled.
And as he watched, Cheeta Ching was pounced upon.
The questions flew fast and furious.
"Miss Ching, is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That you're with child."
"Who said that? My husband?"
"The lab said the rabbit died."
Cheeta turned predatory. "It did? What's your source for that? Did the rabbit have a name? Did he suffer?"
"Your driver told us. He just heard the word."
"I'm preggers!" Cheeta shrieked, throwing up her hands.
Then a strange look came over her flat face. Like an Asian Gorgon, Cheeta Ching lowered her sticky-haired head until she was looking up from under her perfect viper eyebrows into a ring of minicam lenses.
"Everybody better not be filming this," she hissed.
"Why not? It's news."
"It's my news. It's my body. It's my story, and I intend to be the first to break it!"
"Too late," a chipper voice called out. "You gave us the quote. Remember the First Amendment."
"Remember that if any of you have careers after today, you'll have to deal with me. Somewhere. In some city. In some station."
"Are you planning on taking maternity leave, Miss Ching? " a reporter asked pleasantly.
"Cut it out!" Cheeta howled.
"Do you have any ovulation tips for aging baby-boomers who want to be mothers?" another wanted to know.
"Do you have a favorite position for procreating, Miss Ching?" demanded a third.
"The first person to break this story," Cheeta Ching said in a venomous voice, "I will publicly name as the father."
"Then I guess the story's mine," said a bright female voice.
"Who said that?" Cheeta shrieked.
Out from the pack of reporters bolted Jade Ling a local San Francisco anchorwoman of Asian descent. She made for her van.
Cheeta gave chase, crying, "You Jap tart! Come back with that footage!"
The cameras followed them down the steep street on Pacific Park, filming every shriek and threat Cheeta Ching vomited from her leathery lungs.
While they were sorting out broadcast rights, Remo circled around to the blind side of the house and mounted the gingerbread and nameless wooden decorations to the roof. Amid a forest of satellite dishes, he found an unobstructed skylight and peered down.