The cabby took the coin in his hand and hefted it. "It's heavy like real gold," he said slowly.
"It is real gold," said Remo wearily, wishing he had thought to ask Smith for a cash loan. Remo had made his way from Seoul, South Korea, to the United States on a handful of ounce-weight gold ingots he had taken from the treasure house of Sinanju. He overpaid outrageously for every fare, but because he paid in gold, the true item of value behind the world's paper-money supply, he had received nothing but a hard time. People were willing to accept cash, checks, or credit cards, but not gold. Not the one thing that was of true value in the world.
"If it's real gold, why are you overpaying me by over three hundred and fifty dollars?" the cabdriver wanted to know.
"I'd appreciate change," Remo said sweetly, and he smiled.
"Nothing doing," said the cabby, who was beginning to suspect the gold was genuine. Especially after he bit into the yellow ingot and saw toothmarks. A get cash or I keep the whole thing."
"Then keep the whole thing," Remo said in a pleasant tone while he rubbed a finger against the lock on the driver's side. A wisp of smoke came out of the lock aperture. When the driver next tried to open the door, he would find he couldn't. He would learn that the door would have to be replaced, but that it could not be removed for replacement without dismantling the taxi.
It wasn't as good as exact change, Remo thought as he took the elevator to the penthouse, but true satisfaction is without price. He decided to write that down somewhere. It would be the first thing he wrote in his histories of Sinanju when he got around to writing them.
The elevator took Remo to the penthouse floor. When the doors opened, he found himself confronted by an unusual sight.
A man stood facing the elevator, as if he had expected visitors. The man was short, very short. He wore sunglasses. A bowler hat sat on his head, canted at a rakish angle. The hat was green, Christmas-package green. So was the tiny man's neat jacket. The pants, however; were canary yellow, as was the man's shirt. He wore a purple tie. Silk.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Ferris Wheel."
"D'Orr," the voice said, pitched very low.
"Which door?" asked Remo, looking around. The little man followed him.
"Not door. Not wheel. D'Orr. Ferris D'Orr," the little man said, his voice rising to a squeaky pitch. "Honestly, Remo, have you so soon lost command of your native tongue?"
Remo spun as if on a pivot. He looked closer. The little man beamed, and Remo noticed for the first time the wisps of white hair on the little man's face and the Korean sandals peeping out from the trouser cuffs.
Remo lifted the green hat and exposed a balding head with tufts of white hair over the ears.
"Chiun?"
The Master of Sinanju removed his sunglasses and did a delicate pirouette to show off his new American attire.
"Brooks Brothers," said Chiun happily. "Only the best. How do I look?"
"Like a lemon-lime sherbet," Remo said, hardly believing his eyes.
"You must have searched far and wide to find me," said Chiun with satisfaction. "You must have covered all of Asia before you knew I was not there. Africa's sands must have known your implacable step before that continent, too, was eliminated from your arduous search. Lo, in the generations to come, future Masters will sing of how Remo the Unfair shunned his bride, telling her she was no longer important, bade his villagers a tearful farewell, and said to the heavens, 'I must go, though it take me to the end of my days, and seek out the Master who made me whole, and throw myself at his feet to beg his forgiveness. Though it take me decades, and Chiun the Great spit upon me when I find him, I will do this gladly, for I owe him everything.' "
The Master of Sinanju stepped back a pace to allow his pupil groveling room.
Remo frowned, putting his hands on his hips.
"You left a trail a pig could follow. A blind pig," he said.
The countenance of the Master of Sinanju assumed a hurt expression.
"You are not here to grovel?"
"I'm here to take you back. To Sinanju."
"Impossible," said the Master of Sinanju, turning on his beef. "I am under contract."
"We'll break it. You've done it before."
"I have a new appreciation for America." Chiun said.
"You didn't ever have an old appreciation for America. It was a barbarian land, remember? It was a land of round-eyed whites who smelled of beef and pork fat and had feet so big it was a miracle they could walk."
"I was younger when I said those things. Much younger. I have grown in wisdom since those long-ago days."
"Since last week?"
"What's that racket?" asked Ferris D'Orr, poking his head out of his laboratory.
"Who's he?" asked Remo peevishly.
"That is Ferris. Do not mind him. He always gets irritable when he is around metals. He is a metallurgist, poor fellow."
"Is that the kidnapper?" asked Ferris, looking at Remo. "No, this is my son. The son I told you about. Allow me to present Remo to you. He is in condoms. And toilets."
Ferris looked Remo up and down. "Keep him away from me, then. I don't swing that way."
"Can we have a little privacy, please?" Remo asked.
"Sure thing," said Ferris D'Orr, hanging a Do Not Disturb sign on the lab door and slamming it behind him.
"The treasure house?" Chiun asked low-voiced. "Did you lock it behind you?"
"Double-locked. I left Pullyang in charge."
"Pah! Better you had staked one of the village dogs at the door. A dog does not bray at lame jokes."
"What's eating you? Will you tell me that?"
Chiun reached into his breast pocket and extracted a red leather wallet "Look," he said.
Remo looked.
"A woman's wallet. So what?"
"It is a woman's?" asked Chiun, surprised. "I chose it because it was the most appealing in color."
"A man's wallet is never red. Black or brown. Never red."
"I almost bought a green one," Chiun said hopefully, with a silver clasp."
"Woman's,"
"Oh," said Chiun. "Then show me your wallet."
"I don't have one. I threw it away when I knew I wasn't coming back to America. Or so I thought."
"Then do not insult my fine American wallet if do not have one of your own. This will serve me well, for it carries something that is priceless."
"Gold?"
"Better than gold," said Chiun.
"Am I dreaming, or did you say better than gold?" The Master of Sinanjaa extracted a gold-colored plastic card from the otherwise empty wallet. "Behold." Remo took the card.
"American Express," he said. On the card was embossed the name M.O.S. Chiun. "M.O.S.?"
"Master of Sinanju," Chiun replied. "I wanted it to read 'Reigning Master of Sinanju,' in acknowledgment of your current status as subordinate Master, but there was not enough room on the card, so I had to settle."
"I didn't know I was supposed to be subordinate Master. Is that my title?"
"I just made it up," Chiun admitted. "But let me explain how this wonderful American invention works." Remo was about to say that he already knew, but realized that Chiun would go on anyway, so he shut his mouth to save time.
"Instead of money, you give this card to merchants in return for services."
"Oh really?" Remo said.
"Oh, I know that does not seem like much," said the Master of Sinanju, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But that is not the wondrous thing."
"What is?"
"They always give the card back."
"They always give-"
"Shhhh," said Chiun. "I do not want this to get out. Then everyone will go to Smith for one of these wondrous cards."
"Can't have that," Remo said.
"It is better than gold. You give a merchant gold and what happens?"
"He bites it to see if it's real," said Remo, thinking of the cabdriver who had brought him to this precious moment in life.