The Black Skulls were getting many bones this summer because of a new policy of police community relations under which, instead of arresting the cyclists for assault, they were called in to discuss white racism and how the San Diego Police Department could overcome it. Invariably, the prescription was, "Stop hassling us, man."
Thus, unhassled by police, the Black Skulls made many bones that summer, although not in Italian neighborhoods whose unenlightened racial policies led the Black Skulls to a unanimous decision that "You don't mess with the guineas." Sometimes, the Black Skulls would work on black but only when the day had been unfruitful of white victims.
This day, the last cyclist looked back to see if he got both the old man with the beard and the funny yellow robe, and the white dude with the gray slacks and blue turtleneck sweater. They seemed unbothered, so Willie "Sweetman" Johnson and Muhammid Crenshaw signaled the pack to wheel around and make another pass.
This time Willie "Sweetman" Johnson, who had been called a failure of the San Diego school system—his last teacher had failed to teach him to read, possibly because she was being raped at the time by Sweetman himself and the alphabet came unclear through her bloody and battered lips—this time, Sweetman chose a closer path. Like right through the hips of the younger honkey. And he missed. The honkey was there in front of the built-up chrome bar on top of the front wheel guard, and then the honkey was not there.
"You see that boy move?" asked Sweetman, whirling around at the other end of the street.
"Ah hits da yella one," said Muhammid Crenshaw. "But he still dere."
"This time they go," yelled Sweetman.
"For the love of Allah," yelled Muhammid Crenshaw.
"Yeah, for motherfuckin' Allah," yelled Sweetman, and the four cyclists closed on the two figures.
Remo saw the cyclists wheel for a return run.
"I'll tell you the truth, Little Father. I want to see Sinanju too. I know I'm the best pupil you ever had, and I want to see the young men of Sinanju."
"You have become adequate because I have been willing to spend extra time with you," said Chiun.
"Doesn't matter," Remo said. "I'm still the best you've had. Me. Whitey. Paleface. Me."
And with a simple backhand snap, Remo took the first rider off his cycle and held him. Chiun was a bit more efficient. He let his cyclist continue with a minor alteration in the plastic shield over his face mask. There was a small hole in it the width of a forefinger. There was also a small hole in the forehead behind the mask. It oozed red as the driver, not caring anymore, zoomed complacently into a fire hydrant, where he became separated from his machine and sailed off into a pile of rotting garbage, with which he blended very well.
Remo's rider kicked and screamed. Remo held him by the neck. Sweetman tried to reach the rod in his jacket pocket. Unfortunately, Sweetman was now unqualified for holding a gun. His right arm ended in a bloody wrist.
The other two riders, assuming Muhammid Crenshaw, now lying with the rest of the garbage, had hit a bump and missteered, and not sure whether Sweetman had gotten off his wheels to deal personally with the honkey or had been yanked off, wheeled back at the two in the middle of the street.
Remo slipped down to Sweetman's ankles, where, grabbing both, he swung the flailing leather-jacketed man in a nice, smooth horizontal path that caught the brace of oncoming cyclists full face. Chiun refused to move or even recognize Remo. He wanted no part of a person who had such arrogance as to believe he was a good pupil.
Sweetman took the other cyclists off their wheels with a nice crack.
"Home run," said Remo, but Chiun refused to look. Sweetman's helmet went skittering across the gutter. One cyclist lay flattened, the other rose groggily to his knees. One cycle dizzily circled the street and ended in an abandoned doorway. The other tumbled and stopped nearby, its gas tank spilling fumes and dark liquid in the gutter. Remo saw his human bat had a wild Afro, a cone twice the size of the helmet.
"Hi," said Remo, looking down at the Afro. "My name is Remo. What's yours?"
"Mufu," said Sweetman.
"Mufu, who sent you?"
"No one send me, man. Get yo mufu hands off'n me. Ah rack yo ass."
"Let's play school," said Remo. "I ask you a question, and you give me a positive answer with a sweet cheerful smile. All righty?"
"Mufu."
Remo walked the cyclist upside down to the spilling gas tank, where he dipped the Afro into the liquid, sloshing the head around. Then he walked his charge back to the cyclist getting to his feet.
"Got a light?" said Remo.
He saw a switchblade knife come out of the jacket and with his toe lacked it away.
"Three points," said Remo, who was in a scoring mood. "Field goal." And with the same foot coming back on its heel, he shattered an ear drum. "That's for not listening," said Remo. "I want a light."
"Don't give da man no match. My fro's been gaso-lined."
"Fu yu mufu," said the cyclist with the bleeding ear.
"You talking to me?" said Remo.
"No, to de nigger, Sweetman," said the cyclist, and he struck a match.
Remo lifted Sweetman higher. The hair caught like a torch, burning up to the eyebrows.
"Who sent you?" asked Remo.
"A as in apple, B as in boy, C as in cat," cried Sweetman.
"What's he talking about?" asked Remo.
"School. He learning de alphabet to get his degree from de teacher's college. He din wan take no easy course like Afro studies. You don't have to count fo that. Or spell or know de alphabet."
"Arghhh," cried Sweetman as his brain stopped working. Which was just as well. He had never gotten past F as in fly, even in his senior year in high school.
Remo dropped the legs.
"And you, my friend, who sent you?"
"No one send us. We do it for fun."
"You mean you'd kill somebody and not get paid for it?"
"We just funning."
"Your funning interfered with my conversation. Do you know that?"
"Ah sorry."
"Sorry isn't enough. You don't go interfering with people's conversations in the middle of the street. It's not nice."
"Ah be nice."
"See that you do. Get your friends out of here."
"They dead."
"Well, bury them or something," said Remo, and he stepped over the charred head of the writhing body and joined Chiun on the sidewalk.
"Sloppy," said Chiun.
"I was in the street. I worked with what I had."
"Sloppy, careless, and messy."
"I just wanted to be sure they weren't part of the Divine Bliss Mission."
"Of course. Play in the streets. Visit holy houses. Anything but taking your benefactor to his home. Even your emperor orders it, but, no, you must play your games. And why, I asked myself, must someone to whom I have given so much, refuse me a simple visit to my birthplace. Why I asked myself. Why? Where have I gone wrong in his education? Is it possible that I am at fault?"
"I can't wait to hear the answer," said Remo. The door was heavy wood with a small glass circle in the center of it. Remo knocked.
"Was I at fault, I asked myself. And being scathingly honest, I came to the conclusion, that, no, everything I gave you was perfect and right. I had performed miracles with you. This I admitted to myself. Then why does my pupil still do improper things? Why does my pupil still deny me a simple little favor? In being harsh with myself, sparing no criticism, I was forced to the following conclusion. Remo, you are cruel. You have a cruel streak."