Non-Japanese were not barred from the Hinomaru Supermarket-that would have been illegal-but neither were they made to feel welcome.
So when Remo and Chiun entered the establishment and demanded to speak to the manager, they were pointedly ignored.
This rudeness lasted as long as it took for the Master of Sinanju to insert the head of a stock clerk into the gaping mouth of a deep-sea bass that was stacked in an ice-lined cedar counter in the seafood section.
When the stock clerk's muffled cries attracted the manager's attention, Remo grabbed him by his white shirt front.
"Speak English?" he asked.
"Yes. Naturarry."
"Great. I bought a duck here today." He held up the wrapper. "Where did this come from?"
"We do not serr these," the manager said, a little too quickly for Remo's liking.
"My ass," said Remo.
"I knew it," said Chiun. "You are in galoots together."
"That's 'cahoots,' " corrected Remo.
"Thank you for admitting your guilt."
"If you'll just use your nose, you'll smell the heady aroma of ruddy duck wafting through the deep-sea bass," Remo said pointedly.
Whatever retort the Master of Sinanju had been about to make was never offered. Instead he began to sniff furiously, then flew into a back room, where two stock boys were busy re-crating shrink-wrapped duckling corpses.
Chiun scattered them with a flurry of upraised arms, and fell upon the crates. He sliced a package open with a long fingernail and extracted a headless duck carcass. He sniffed it all around and said, "Poisoned." He dropped the duck from his tapered fingers.
Turning on the flustered manager, who along with Remo had followed him into the room, Chiun demanded, "From whence comes this carrion?"
"Japan," said the manager instantly. He nodded his head like one of those glass birds that constantly bob for water.
"You lie!" screamed Chiun, with such vehemence that Remo momentarily dropped the limp, bloodied wrapper he had been carrying. He snatched it up with a backhand gesture, one eye on the Master of Sinanju as he hectored the suddenly trembling Japanese.
The exchange that followed was too rapid for Remo to follow, even if he had been fluent in conversational Japanese. But the facial expressions told most of it. Chiun was accusing the manager of lying through his teeth. The accused protested, relented, and then shamefacedly admitted his guilt.
He slunk off, then promptly returned with a bill of lading. Chiun snatched it up, glanced at it, and blew out of the supermarket like an elemental wind, leaving Remo staring at the manager, and the downcast manager contemplating his own shoes.
Remo handed him the duck wrapper and said, "Nice chatting with you," before he left.
When Remo caught up with Chiun he asked, "Where are you going?"
"To the kingdom of the Chicken King."
"Yeah? Why?"
"To search for poisoned ducks, of course."
"Why on earth are we off to see the Chicken King over a duck?"
"That is not the proper question."
"Then what is?"
"The proper question is, 'Why is the Chicken King poisoning ducks?' "
"Could be worse," Remo suggested.
Chiun stopped and examined his student under the sickly yellow corona of the late afternoon sun.
"How?"
"They could be poisoning fish, too. Then we'd be eating rice and nothing but." Remo grinned disarmingly.
Chiun frowned. "Only a round-eyed white would entertain such a dastardly thought," he sniffed.
"Don't look at me. I didn't poison the freaking duck."
"That," said Chiun darkly, "remains to be seen.
"Oh," said Remo, who had thought he was off the hook, but now knew otherwise.
Chapter 5
"Fast, powerful, and extremely virulent," pronounced Dr. Saul Silverberg, leaning over the operating table. He was dressed in the starched white uniform of a surgeon. He had on white orthopedic running shoes with white rubber soles, thick white athletic socks, baggy white, pleated slacks, a stiff white cotton shirt, and the classic white lab coat.
Over his mouth and nose was a white mask, attached by a white band around his white ears. Even his hair was white. He was with the Department of Poultry and Avian Sciences, Human Nutrition Division, School of Environmental Medicine, Latvia Nuclei Research Laboratory, New York Medical Center, which made him the foremost expert in food-borne disease outbreaks in the world. He involved himself only in the most important cases, had a reputation to match, and didn't come cheap.
Only the best in the world was good enough for this patient.
"Forceps," he snapped to the short brunette nurse. She slapped it into his hand. He worked briskly, carefully. "Probe." She gave him that, too. "Light," he said. "I need more light here."
The nurse repositioned the intense penlight on the flexible metal stand closer to the patient's mouth. Silverberg peered inside.
The operating room shone with new beige tile and pink caulking. All the equipment was gleaming silver. It was all brand-new, perfectly maintained, and the best money could buy.
Silverberg looked up, his expression serious, and pinioned the patient's guardian with his milky gray eyes. "I'm . .. concerned," he said solemnly, choosing his words carefully. Then he began spitting out terse questions.
"Where did she last eat?"
"Out . . . outside," said the patient's guardian. "Were the foods prepared hours before serving?"
"Uh . . . yes."
"Was there adequate refrigeration?"
"Well, no, not really."
"Was the food reheated?"
"No."
"What were the symptoms?"
"What?"
"Nausea? Vomiting? Cramps? Diarrhea? Fever? Other?"
"Well, you saw her, doctor . . . ."
"Yes," said Silverberg grimly. "I see her." His inquisition resumed. "Did you check the utensils?"
"Yes."
"Water supply?"
"Yes."
"Sewage disposal facilities?"
"Yes."
"Garbage storage?"
"Yes."
"Vermin control?"
"Yes."
"Lighting? Ventilation?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" the guardian exclaimed. "We checked absolutely everywhere and everything. There just doesn't seem to be a reason for this terrible, terrible disease!"
Silverberg looked up from the operating table at the man opposite him. The latter was sitting in a small glass room, speaking into a state-of-the-art microphone. Dr. Silverberg listened through a tiny speaker set high on the tile wall.
The man had a light bulb-shaped head, fringed with yellow hair, and decorated with narrow eyes, a light bulb nose, and thin lips. He didn't so much have a chin, as a neck that started a few inches below his mouth. His neck was as wattled as a turkey's.
Although skinny, the man wore an expensive, beautifully tailored brown suit, which nevertheless sagged on him like a burlap bag. His tie was thin and power-red, tied in a wartlike knot under his bobbing Adam's crab-apple.
"Yes," the doctor repeated, straightening. "Well, there's not much more I can do here-." He pulled off one white rubber glove with an audible snap. "Besides, the anesthetic is wearing off. Nurse, post-prep the patient."
The brunette started undoing the straps. The patient blinked several times, kicked her legs once, and clucked. The nurse stepped back as the specially bred fryer chicken tried to stand up.
Dr. Silverberg motioned the animal's guardian forward, while taking off his mask. Henry Cackleberry Poulette strode into the Henry Cackleberry Poulette Operating Room in the Henry Cackleberry Poulette Wing of the Woodstock, New York, Veterinary Hospital.
The man millions knew as "the Chicken King" from his series of award-winning commercials faced Dr. Saul Silverberg over a gurney. "Is she all right?" he asked. "Is my baby all right? Will they all be all right?"