The only problem was that it hadn't worked. The neighborhood had turned into a slum faster than the tavern could be turned into a cocktail lounge and now the owners were left with a joint, with a fancy name, new but ripped plastic seats and an even tougher clientele than the ones they had tried to chase.
When Dr. Harold Smith arrived, he was almost overcome by the pervasive stench of camaraderie that only dead drunks have for each other. Wood, urine, plastic, all combined their smells in an olfactory welcome, which was not shared by the people at the bar.
Standing inside the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, Dr. Smith with his precisely creased gray suit, white shirt and regimental tie, and his gray two-suiter that was guaranteed to withstand a fall from the top of a twenty-story building, drew a lot of attention from the regulars of Tuesday's Pub.
"Hey, hey, look at the honkey," someone called from the bar.
"Woowee, he look like a professor. I bet he think he in the city museum."
"No," Smith said aloud. "Not a museum."
He walked past the bar to the back room, where he saw Remo and Chiun sitting at a table. Remo was counting ceiling tiles and Chiun was watching a dart game in progress.
Smith eased himself into an empty chair across from Remo, who continued to look at the ceiling.
"Nice places you bring me to," Smith said.
Remo still stared at the ceiling. Chiun nodded to Smith.
"Remo, it is Emperor Smith. Emperor Smith is here," he said.
Without looking down from the ceiling, Remo said "Did you bring the money?"
"Into this place?" Smith said.
"Don't weasel-word me," Remo said. "Have you got the money for my house?"
"I can get it in ten minutes," Smith said. "Now what is all this about a house?"
While Remo tried to explain, about how he was discontented even though perfect, Chiun turned and watched the dart game.
The board was an old-fashioned American dart board, a large pie divided up into twenty equal slices. Each wedge-shaped slice was cut up again into three arc-like pieces. The largest one, closest to the center of the board, counted one point; the next, red arc, counted two points, and the smallest arc, another white one on the outside of the board, counted three points.
The two men were playing baseball with each man taking turns throwing three darts at the sections of the board number one through nine.
A man with an electrified Afro was leaning forward over the shooting line, when he sensed Chiun's eyes on him, and he rocked back on his heels and turned to the aged Oriental.
"Whuffo you staring at me?" he demanded.
"I was just watching you throw those needles," Chiun said pleasantly.
The man nodded as if vindicated and turned back to the board.
"And wondering why you do not learn to do it correctly," Chiun said.
"Heh, heh," the man said. He looked at his playing partner who chuckled too, and explained to Chiun: "Willie's the best in the bar."
"Maybe the best in town," Willie said.
"Think how much better you would be if you knew what you were doing," Chiun said.
"Chiun," Remo said, "will you stop fooling around? The least you could do is pay attention to what we're talking about."
"I already have a house," Chiun said. "I'm sure that you and the emperor will make everything come out all right. I am just trying to help this awkward one. Willie."
Ting. Ting. Ting.
Formica chips flew on the table as the three wooden darts slammed through the covering and buried themselves in the wood beneath.
"There you go, old man, you so smart, you show me."
Remo reached over and pulled the three darts from the table. He snapped the pointed metal tips off each one and then tossed them back to Willie.
"Stop fooling around," Remo said. "Can't you see I'm buying a house? Why don't you go to the welfare office? Today's check day."
Remo turned back to Smith. "No house, no work, that's it, case closed," he said.
Smith shrugged. "You realize, of course, that your security will be greatly compromised by a house. That was part of the program in the first place, your continuing to move around, from place to place, so no one would be able to track you down. That's why you're not supposed to ever return to Folcroft."
"It's different now," Remo said. "Suppose somebody does track me down? What are they going to do?"
"Kill you," Smith said.
"Damn right, I kill you, honkey. You ruined one sweet set of darts on me," Willie said, approaching the table.
Remo shook his head at Smith. "Nobody can kill me," he said.
"I kill you, honkey," Willie shrieked. "Them was good darts."
Remo turned toward him. "Will you go away? Can't you see I'm talking business here?"
He turned back to Smith. "See, my safety's not a problem anymore, so all you've got to worry about is security for the organization. We'll do everything under a fake name."
Smith sighed and shrugged.
"So it's settled?" Remo said.
"I'm gonna settle you," Willie yelled.
Remo said, "Now I've been very nice with you, Willie, so far. Don't make me spoil my good record."
"Who gonna pay for my darts?" Willie's yelling had started to attract a crowd, as men, glasses in hand, moved away from the bar and toward the back room.
"Settled?" Remo asked Smith again.
Smith nodded.
Remo turned away. "I'll play you for your darts, Willie," he said.
"Give 'em here," he said.
Willie tossed the three tipless darts onto the table and Remo picked them up. It had been a dozen years or more since he had thrown darts, back when he had been a policeman on the Newark police force. He was pretty good then but now as he hefted the darts, he realized he had known nothing then. He had gotten pretty good at the game by making his mistakes consistent, not by learning to throw darts correctly.
"One inning," he said to Willie. "If you win, I'll give you fifty dollars for your darts."
"Twenty dollars," Smith said.
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for your darts if you win," Remo said. "And if I win, we just forget it."
"All right," Willie said, with a slow smile washing over his face. "Clarence, you go get some darts from the bar."
Three more brand-new wooden darts were brought to the back room. Willie looked them over then handed them toward Remo.
"You first," Remo said. "I want to see what I have to beat."
"Okay," Willie said. "I pick the inning. We shoot number four."
Willie leaned over the shooting line, and carefully threw the darts at the board. The first two landed in the red ring; the third in the outside white ring.
"That seven points," Willie said with a smile.
He pulled the darts from the board and handed them to Remo who remained sitting at the table, facing away from the board.
"That's all right," Remo said. "I'll use these."
"Hey, dummy, those darts ain't got no points on 'em," Willie said.
"Never you mind. I've got to beat seven?"
Without waiting for an answer, Remo twisted in his chair, to face the board, and then fired all three darts at once in a wide sweeping motion of his right hand.
Later on, people in Tuesday's Pub would say the skinny white man threw the darts so fast no one could see them.
The three darts hit the heavy board with a thunk. Side by side in the white arc of the number four wedge, they hit, with such force that their snub noses smashed through the heavy cork and stopped only when they reached the wall behind.
"Nine points, I win; leave me alone," Remo said.
Willie looked at Remo, at the dart board, and at Remo again.
Remo stood up, along with Smith and Chiun, who whispered to Willie: "He is a showoff. It is better if the darts have points." Chiun looked down and took the three darts Willie had used from the young man's hand. He looked at the board once, then tossed all three darts with one easy motion of his right hand. The darts each buried themselves into the back end of one of the darts Remo had thrown. "Practice," Chiun said. "You will get better."