But it could not go on forever, he knew.
"Just one more," he murmured under his breath. "One more sacrificial lamb and we'll have worked out a solution."
He rejected the married applicants. He did not wish to widow anyone. Princeton graduates-his alma mater-were likewise spared as a gesture to sentiment. The hopelessly unqualified were also discarded from consideration. Hard times compelled people to apply for positions they could never hope to fulfill, and Tollini recognized these as hardship cases.
He was looking for a middle ground. Someone who could at least put forth a creditable effort. Maybe if enough technicians told the Boston client the same thing, they would realize it was hopeless and stop bothering him.
Thirty-some applicants into the thick pile, Antony Tollini ran across a name that stuck out.
The name was Remo Mercurio.
"Remo," he said aloud, tasting the name. "Remo. I like the sound of it. Remo. "
He skimmed the resume. It was lackluster. There were even a few misspelled words. But at the bottom of the page, in red felt pen, was scrawled a postscript:
I AM THE ANSWER TO YOUR PROBLEMS."
Normally such a crass deviation from the rigid formalities of business etiquette was cause for summary rejection. But if there was anything Antony Tollini had been praying to Saint Theresa for these last few weeks, it was someone to solve this, his greatest problem since joining IDC as a starry-eyed twenty-three-year-old.
"Remo," he said, tasting the vowels. He picked up the desk phone.
"Nancy. I want you to call an applicant named Remo Mercurio."
"Are you sure, Mr. Tollini? I mean, are you certain you want to do this?"
"Nancy, I'm positive."
Antony Tollini replaced the receiver, a welling of hope rising in his throat. Maybe this time it would work. Maybe this one would be the person. And maybe, just maybe, he could sleep soundly again.
He was sick to death of dreaming of decapitated horses, their dead equine eyes staring back at him accusingly.
Chapter 5
"I'm on," Remo said, replacing the telephone in the Mamaroneck hotel where he had taken a room.
"We are on, you mean," said Chiun stiffly.
"Sorry, Little Father. This is a job interview. No hangers-on. It wouldn't look right."
"You think I am too old to accompany you now?" said the Master of Sinanju, not looking away from the television. It was down on the rug. Chiun sat, lotus-style, not three feet from the screen. The voices coming from the TV had British accents the way a stray mutt has fleas.
"No, I don't," Remo said quickly, checking his face in the mirror. The lump was still there, no bigger, no smaller.
"Halt Then you admit thinking me old!"
"No, of course you aren't old."
Chiun hit the VCR pause button and turned his cold face in Remo's direction. "Then what am I, if not old? To your round white unseeing eyes?"
"Young?" ,
Chiun frowned. "You insult me."
"Seasoned?"
"In my native land the aged are venerated. With great age comes accompanying respect."
"Okay, okay. You're old as the hills and twice as respected. Satisfied?"
The Master of Sinanju puffed up his cheeks. This was a warning sign roughly equivalent to a cobra spreading its hood, so Remo thought fast.
"We gotta keep you in reserve," Remo said hastily. "Just in case I blow it."
The distended cheeks collapsed slowly as the Master of Sinanju slowly released the air held in his mouth in lieu of an explosive retort.
The possibility that Remo would blow it loomed very large in Chiun's mind. As Remo knew it would.
"This is good," said Chiun, nodding seriously. "I accept this." He tapped the play button and the VCR resumed.
"Good," said Remo, heading for the door. "Stick by the phone. Once I land this job, I'll let you know what's what."
Chiun cocked his head to one side, puppy-dog-style. "This is your promise?"
Remo raised two fingers. "Scout's honor," he promised.
On his way out the door, Remo tried to remember if the Boy Scout salute was actually three fingers. It had been a long time since he had seen an actual Boy Scout, never mind one saluting.
Still, he thought as he jumped into his blue Buick coupe, he intended to keep his promise regardless of technicalities such as digit count.
At the world headquaters of International Data Corporation, Remo created quite a stir as he entered the cathedrallike stainless-steel-and-granite lobby.
The desk security man looked him up and down once coolly and said, "Have you the wrong address?"
"This IDC?" asked Remo, rotating his abnormally thick wrists impatiently.
"It is, sir."
"Then this is the right address. I have a job interview."
"We employ outside contractors for maintenance services," the security guard said with level politeness. "You must be mistaken. "
Remo realized then and only then that he was wearing his white T-shirt over a pair of black chinos. He had forgotten to dress for the interview.
Too late now, he thought glumly. He decided to go for broke.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Tollini in about five minutes. "
"Name?"
"Remo Mercurio."
The guard checked his log, found the name, and leaned across the counter. "Interested in a word of advice?"
"If it'll get me the job," Remo said truthfully.
"Forget it. The company has a strict dress code. I can't allow you past the desk without a suit and tie."
"Why don't we ask Mr. Tollini?" Remo asked, leaning across the counter to meet the security man halfway. "Maybe he'll take me as I am."
"The rule is inflexible."
Remo frowned. While they were nose-to-nose, he asked, "What size suit do you wear?"
While the man was hesitating, Remo reached over and took his muscular neck in his lean fingers. He squeezed a nerve and the security man blew out a gusty Listerine-tainted breath in Remo's face.
Remo jumped the desk and appropriated the security man's blue blazer. It was not a perfect fit, but the dark tie went with Remo's eyes.
It was enough to get him to the elevator unchallenged.
When he stepped off on Mr. Tollini's floor, Remo had shucked the blazer and stuffed it up the ceiling trap of the elevator. He decided that he would look more like a fool in a three-sizes-too-big blue blazer than none at all.
He found the office at the very end of along austere corridor. It reminded him of his orphanage days when he would have to report to Sister Mary Margaret, the mother superior. Her office had been at the end of along corridor too.
Remo went through the glass door marked "VICE-PRESI
DENT IN CHARGE OF SYSTEMS OUTREACH."
The too-cool secretary gave Remo a disapproving look that made her resemble a distant cousin to the unconscious guard.
"You are... ?" she began.
"Remo Mercurio," Remo said.
"Mr. Tollini's ten-o'clock?"
"The very same."
The secretary hesitated, ran a pert pink tongue around the subdued lipstick of her mouth indecisively, and finally buzzed Antony Tollini.
"Mr. Tollini. Mr. Mercurio is here."
"Show him in," said the bright voice of Antony Tollini.
Remo smiled confidently at the secretary, as he breezed past, saying, "Don't bother. I'll help myself."
Remo didn't know what to expect when he walked in. He would have to talk around the lack of a suit. That much was for sure. He might even have to strong-arm the man. He hoped his faked history and references-all rigged by Harold Smith-would get him over the hump.
Antony Tollini looked up from the paperwork on his desk. His light brown eyes acquired a stung expression as they alighted on Remo's bare arms and fresh T-shirt.
I blew it, Remo thought.
The stung expression lasted only a moment. Antony Tollini's mouth twiched, his nostrils flared.