"Sir," said Remo to Chiun, "I don't even know you."
"You calling me a white man? You are way whiter than me!"
"I am Korean," Chiun said stiffly.
"You are white!" the man proclaimed indignantly.
Remo tried to look uninvolved. "Oh boy."
"And where are you from?" Chiun demanded, his body rigid.
"Africa, originally. But I was born in Baltimore."
"Which makes you as white as snow."
"Oh yeah, yellow ass?"
Chiun's bony hand slithered over the seat, found the man's neck and slithered back. The vice president of accounting slept the rest of the way to Chicago.
"The point is this," Chiun continued doggedly, "these upstarts are intent on making publicity that should rightfully belong to me."
"Or us," Remo added. "But the other point is this—
Smitty doesn't want publicity. Publicity would shut us down. Publicity is going to shut these people down if they ever get any. Assassination is against the law."
"Laws are made by the rulers of the land," Chiun said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means nothing." Chiun looked out the window.
"It means something."
But Chiun was done with the discussion. He had a wobbling wing to watch.
Against all odds, the aircraft remained in one piece and landed them safely at Chicago O'Hare, where a limousine awaited them. The driver was a tall blond woman who waved a white cardboard sign proclaiming "R. Middlesex".
"You Middle-sex?" She said it like two words and gave Remo a slow, salacious appraisal.
Remo checked his ID. "That's us."
"It is you. I shall ride along, however," Chiun sniffed.
"And we're late," Remo added. Somehow he just knew the driver wanted to engage in a little bit of hanky- panky talk, and he was not in the mood.
"Fine," she said, yanking the door open. "Clothes are on the hook."
Remo had forgotten about the clothes. It was a tuxedo, of all things. "Smitty doesn't really think I'm going to wear that, does he?"
"You going to the governor's big deal at the U of I, ain't you?" the driver asked. "It's formal."
"I'll wear the jacket," Remo said. "At least until I'm through the door." He dismantled the various components of apparel on the hanger and found the jacket, which he shrugged into.
"I like you, Middle-sex," the driver said.
"I dislike you both," Chiun snapped and jabbed at the button that raised the window between them and the driver. "I am glad Smith is too miserly to offer us this class of transportation on a regular basis. Limousine drivers are notoriously ill-tempered."
At that moment, for no obvious reason, the limo braked suddenly. Any other occupants would have been tossed to the floor. Chiun and Remo rode out the deceleration without discomfort.
"Do not say anything insulting, Remo," Chiun warned, "for I fear the harlot is invading our privacy."
There was a squeal of tires. As they started moving again, the driver got on the intercom. "Sorry. There were some skunks in the road."
"That explains the smell," Chiun replied.
They screeched to another hard stop. The driver was disconcerted that her passengers hadn't even been tossed out of their seats. Usually she could do some serious head knocking when she wanted to, maybe cause some concussions.
They disembarked at the entrance of the University of Illinois, Chicago auditorium, where the traffic cops waved them to the front entrance. The driver sneered her lip at Chiun, but he ignored her completely as he left.
Remo needed all his Sinanju-enhanced dexterity to dodge the sharp little pinch she targeted at the seat of his pants.
"Oh, great, more jokers."
Trooper Krucoff, commanding the governor's Antiterrorist Security Patrol, was also sick of the jokers, and sick of the jokes and sick of the just plain meanness that got leveled at him and his men. As if they chose the governor. As if doing their sworn duty somehow made them a part of the governor's agenda or alleged improprieties.
And marching right at him was another pair of ingrates, sure to give him shit. One was as old as Methuselah, if Methuselah was Japanese or Filipino or whatever this guy was, and he was wearing a shiny dress with dragons or something chasing themselves around the legs. The other guy was of indeterminate age. Maybe twenty-five, maybe forty-five, but sure as shit a goof- ball. He was wearing a black T-shirt and a tuxedo jacket.
Trooper Krucoff blocked the VIP entrance with his fists on his hips.
"Afternoon, Mr. Reeves." The younger man nodded. "Loved you in Superman Versus the Mole People"
Krucoff did hear him, momentarily taken aback by the man's cruel dead eyes. If it weren't for the goofy getup the trooper would have been extremely wary of a man with eyes like that. He shook it off. "I can't let you in here."
"Sure, you can." The younger man reached inside of his jacket, which sent Krucoff and Trooper Azul into a quick draw for their own weapons, but they never even got the snaps off. The man with the dead eyes was unbelievably fast on the draw; it was a good thing he only pulled out an ID wallet. "Special Agent Remo Middlesex, FBI."
"Sure, you are," Trooper Krucoff said, taking the badge. He ran the badge through the electronic scanner and was surprised when the green light came on.
"Who's your sidekick?"
"Special Agent M.O.S.E. Chiun."
The Asian man was standing quietly with his hands in his sleeves, which had Trooper Azul a little on edge, and when the little man extracted something from his sleeves they both were startled into action again.
"Made you jump," the little special agent squeaked as he held out his badge, his face hard but his child-like eyes full of amusement.
Again the badge got a green light from the scanner, but Krucoff handed the badges to Azul.
"Call them in."
If they were insulted by the added precaution, Agents Middlesex and Chiun didn't show it. The little Asian man was at ease, hands once again in his sleeves, his eyes focusing on some wise thing that only elderly Asians could see. The goof in the tuxedo jacket and T-shirt was checking out the other VIPs, who got in without quite so much trouble.
"They're okay," Azul announced a moment later, handing the IDs to Krucoff, who unwillingly returned them to Agent Middlesex.
"Need a tie," Krucoff said.
"No, thanks."
"I'm not asking you, Agent, I'm telling you. This is a formal affair. I'm not allowed to let guests into the governor's skybox without a tie."
Something brushed against his neck and Krucoff realized the little Asian had vanished. He turned around quickly to find Chiun standing there, arms in his sleeves and apparently completely at his leisure, although he had not been there three seconds ago.
When Krucoff spun back at Agent Middlesex, the man was wearing a navy blue tie with his black tuxedo jacket, black T-shirt and brown shoes.
"Thanks," the agent said, and brisked inside the auditorium before Krucoff got a word out. Azul's face screwed up strangely. "Krucoff, where's your tie?"
The trooper's tie joined the tuxedo jacket in the trash can as soon as they were in the VIP lounge. The glassed- in room stood above and to the side of the main floor, with a clear view of the quickly filling auditorium.
"All this for a politician who is about to leave office?" Chiun wondered.
"You have to give him credit for creating a truckload of favorable publicity. This guy should be the state's Richard Nixon. Instead he's actually going out on a high note."
"Yes," said Chiun thoughtfully.
The governor himself was prominently pictured in a silk-screened banner behind the stage, his face ten feet in height, serious yet smiling slightly. The likeness was flattering, even downplaying the man's famously bulbous nose and jowls.
"He still looks like Mr. Magoo," Remo noted.