“From whom did you pilfer that trinket?” Chiun demanded.
“Gift. Supposed to be worth a lot.”
Chiun snatched the pen from Remo’s hand. “It is gold”
“I can tell gold when I see it. That was the first question on the written exam at the Rite of Attainment, wasn’t it?”
“What quality of gold?” Chiun quizzed.
“Fourteen carat. I know it’s not pure, but it’s meant to actually be used and that’s what I’d like to do with it now. Use it.” Remo held out his hand.
“It is French!”
“Like it or not, they make expensive pens in France. Can I please have it?”
Chiun glowered at the inscription on the pen and threw it with the force of a crossbow. Anyone other than Remo would have been lobotomized, but he caught it before it impaled his forehead and used it to pore over the notes on the back of his FedEx receipt. He kept the paper held up so Chiun could not see it.
“Will you tell me now the nature of your prostitution to the Hollywood filth peddlers?”
“Maybe I’m having my biography produced for the big screen.”
“The emblem on the pen belongs not to a film producer, but to a famously disreputable television trashmonger. This would be the appropriate media for the telling of the life of the pale piece of a pig’s ear that calls himself Master of Sinanju—even as he turns his back on the Master’s duties to which he is obligated.”
Remo got the drift of the conversation. “Did Smitty call with more busywork?”
“You care not,” Chiun sniffed. “Suffice it to say, I am taking my leave again shortly to attempt to discharge the duties you refuse to perform.”
“After all the progress you’ve made getting our parking lot shipshape, now you’re leaving?”
“I am not leaving the city. I shall simply drag my weary bones to a local venue to witness another display of American tastelessness. If your new patrons at the studio wish to provide you with females, I will not be here to dampen the mood for your rutting.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Chiun scowled fiercely. “Perhaps I should use your cheap trinket to ink myself with this location. In this way, you can be notified by the authorities if I should meet with foul play.”
“If you meet with foul play, the foul players are going to be the ones needing help.”
“I shall add the message, ‘Do not resuscitate.’ If I am fortunate enough to be struck down, death would be a blessing compared to this daily shame and dishonor.”
Remo sighed loudly. “How about I just go with you, Little Father?”
Chiun stood up in a smooth motion. “The cab is waiting.”
Chapter 15
Anga Meridorsku was as tough as they came, but at the moment she didn’t feel so tough. She felt as if she had a bowling ball wedged in her intestines.
But the show had to go on, so she left her private dressing room in her stocking feet.
“Anga, thank God! We’ve only got fifteen minutes to suit up!” Her manager ushered her nervously into the box, giving her a whispered command. “Don’t let them see you sick—show your stuff.”
Anga was a pro and she was desperate. Her career was on the brink, and her options were limited. What happened today could make her or break her.
“And here’s Angry Anga Meridorsku,” sang the announcer, a suntanned man in a dark suit. He stood in the middle of the polished ice in the glow of a spotlight. The crowd cheered and hooted and booed Anga, but she ignored them as the Waifs began prepping her.
“I guess Angry Anga wanted to make an entrance. Better late than never, Anga.”
More cheers and boos from the audience in response to the signs overhead: Applause and Boo. As the announcer moved on to insult the other skaters, Anga allowed her digestive turmoil to show in her face. The cameras would be filming her every second, but she was supposed to be angry after all.
Her prep crew was doing their thing—carefully padding her legs, slowly wrapping her ankles in flesh-colored elastic. Her prep crew consisted of four small women, ex-cheerleaders and part-time porn stars, chosen for their small size to accentuate Anga’s powerful proportions. They were unnecessarily touchy-feely as they helped Anga don her gear. They thrust out their bottoms with unnecessary frequency as they knotted her leather sports bra and tied Anga’s ice skates. The Waifs were just a part of the show.
Anga was the reason the Waifs were here, and if Anga screwed it up today, she and the Waifs would all be out of a job. Gad, with this knot in her gut she felt she could barely skate, let alone compete.
It was going to be brutal out there today. Anga opened her mouth, and one of the Waifs put the flag between her teeth.
When the bell rang, the doors of each staging box jumped open like the starting gates at a horse race. Hands on Anga’s powerful, leather-clad butt cheeks, the Waifs propelled her onto the ice. Eleven other competitors were ejected from their own boxes.
“And now, ladies, skate like hell!” the announcer thundered.
The announcer was yanked skyward out of the rink on bungee cords and the competitors collided brutally together where he had been standing. The competition was simple: the last skater with a flag still in her teeth was the winner.
The reality was more complicated. Anga muscled through the opening crash of bodies and lunged at the nearest competitor, who dodged, ducked and turned on Anga with a lithe grab. Anga jerked her head away, grabbed the woman’s arm and yanked her off her feet. It was that platinum South Carolina priss. She’d actually been a legitimate skater once—an Olympic contender. She tested positive once too often, and now she could only skate in the Extreme Skating League. Anga snatched the dangling pink nylon out of her teeth so fast it cut her lip.
“This ain’t the Olympics, is it, pretty priss?” Anga shouted, shoving the flag into her cleavage. The crowd roared with approval.
The music was something classical. The audience loved it when they used the classical symphony crap just like at the traditional figure skating events. Anga skated fast at her next victim, who turned on her to meet the onslaught—and then the tremor struck
The ice rink vibrated with sudden thunder. The ice heaved and buckled. The crowd cheered wildly. Anga’s opponent waved her arms for balance even as Anga slammed into her and grabbed the nylon flag from her mouth. The woman’s body flopped onto the ice and spun away, and Anga had the flag in her hand.
“Who’s next?” she shouted through the flag in her teeth. The crowd cheered and stomped their feet. Anga felt stupid saying it, but her agent said it was her signature.
The truth was she felt less confident than she sounded. It was hard to kick ass when you were this constipated. But kick ass was what she had better do.
The first tremor died down, but there would be others, coming at computer-randomized intervals. The field of competitors was already down from twelve to three, and now it was time for a gang bang. Any time two or more competitors teamed up temporarily to take on another competitor it was a gang bang. Today, Anga was the target.
Anga didn’t handle gang bangs as well as she should. That’s why her star was slipping. That’s why she’d failed to win a match in more than five weeks. She had to prove her worth, right here, right now. All at once she knew it was her moment of truth.
She skated right at the two attackers and double feinted, fooling the woman on the left completely. Anga shouldered into her just as the next tremor shook the ice. The crowd went nuts. The ice cracked underneath their feet, and Anga went down hard on top of her opponent.