Chiun had the television on. His ages-old infatuation with American soap operas, which had dimmed when they became too heavy on the gratuitous sex and violence, had recently reemerged with a twist. These days the old Korean was drawn to Spanish serials.
It got worse. Remo had recently begun to suspect that the ancient Korean was leaving the Spanish-language stations on a bit too long after the soap operas ended. Remo was wondering if maybe Chiun had become interested in...
No. Couldn't be. It was too horrible to contemplate.
But the guy on the screen right now was bad enough, and he spoke English, more or less. It was some kind of infomercial with a white-haired Southern statesman-type gesticulating for the camera, grinning like a used-car salesman. Was he selling fried chicken? No, Remo realized, it was politics.
"Now, my esteemed opponent likes to quote the Good Book in his speeches, tellin' you all the Lord Himself would vote Republican if He was registered in the great State of Louisiana. My dear old mama always taught me it was rude to argue with another man's religion, and I ain't about to go against her teaching now. But I will take a moment to remind you all of what the Book of Proverbs tells us, chapter twenty-six, verse five. It says, 'Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be like unto him.' By which I mean to tell you all-"
"Who's the windbag?" Remo asked.
"That's Elmo Breen," said Cuvier. "Big man here in the parish and all across the state. He's friendly with Armand 'Big Crawdaddy' Fortier, I guarantee. The two of them are like that." He raised a hand, the first two fingers intertwined.
"This seersucker's running for office?"
"Governor," Cuvier said sincerely. "I expect he's going to make it, too, less Marvin pull a bunny out his hat."
"Who's Marvin?"
"You all ain't heard of the Reverend Marvin Rockwell?" Cuvier appeared to have some difficulty grasping the idea.
"We're not from around here," Remo explained. That was no excuse, Cuvier's expression told him.
Out loud the Cajun said, "Reverend Rock, I call him. He got a show on TV where you can save your soul without ever having to get up off your sofa. Fact is, Reverend Rock got him a network out of Shreveport there. They call it JBN, I think it is. The Jesus Broadcast Network, or something like."
"And he's running for governor, too?" asked Remo.
"Bet your life he runnin'. Runnin' hard, I guarantee. Old Rock got most of the Jesus people prayin' for him, sendin' in their money to help redeem the State of Louisiana. Throwing away their money is what they're doing."
"You're not a believer?"
"I believe in me," the Cajun said. "What else I got?"
"I thought all of you were Catholic down here," Remo said with a shrug.
Chiun ran through the channels once more, found little besides political announcements and Mardi Gras coverage, and glared hatefully at the television.
"Praise God for your video recorder, eh, Little Father?"
Chiun pinned Remo with a baleful glance. "I will offer no thanks to meddlesome carpenters or to bumbling sons."
"Hey, what's your problem with me all of a sudden?"
"You have displeased Emperor Harold Smith in some way, that he sends us to such barbarous surroundings."
"You may recall that you volunteered to come along," said Remo. "And the trip was my idea, not Smitty's."
"Even worse," Chiun huffed. "No consideration for others. No regard for your frail Father."
"Say," the Cajun interrupted, "is you all related some way?" It was the first time Cuvier had spoken directly to the old Korean. He had shown an extreme reticence toward Chiun since the old Korean gave him a mild traumatic shock by sneaking up on him in his own house.
Chiun made a disgusted sound. "Related?"
"Yes," Remo said.
"No," Chiun insisted.
"We're from the same bloodline," Remo explained.
"We are related as the pigeon is related to the eagle," Chiun clarified.
"Just asking," Cuvier replied, then turned to Remo. "How you figure to go lookin' for the loup-garou?" he asked.
"I thought I'd start with some of your old cronies," Remo said. "They may have an idea who Fortier is using for the contract."
"Best you try another way before you talk to anybody in the family," Cuvier suggested.
"What did you have in mind?"
"You best go see the Gypsies right away, before you get yourself in some kind of mess you can't get out of. They set you straight about the loup-garou."
"Gypsies." It was perfect. Now, if he could only get directions to the good witch of the west, Remo decided he would have it made.
"You be surprised what Gypsies know," said Cuvier. "Might teach you something if you listen close and keep your mouth shut."
"I suppose you know where I can find some, just like that?"
It was the Cajun's turn to smile. "Fact is, I do," he said. "I do indeed."
"Y'ALL THINK it went all right?" Elmo Breen asked of no one in particular.
"You looked great," said Elmo's lackey, Maynard Grymsdyke. "Phones are ringing off the hook already, with the new spot. Answering old Rockhead from the Bible made the difference, like I said. You're winning hearts and minds."
The candidate stopped short and turned to face the shorter, balding Grymsdyke. "Son," he said, "how old are you?"
"How old?" The lackey paused and thought about it, as if searching for the proper and politically correct response.
"Your age, for Christ's sake!" Elmo snapped at him. "It ain't a loaded question."
"Forty-two," Grymsdyke replied, still frowning.
"Forty-two," the white-maned politician echoed, almost wistfully. "So, you was still in diapers when we got our asses kicked by little point-headed folks in Vietnam. That right?"
Grymsdyke delayed responding for another moment. This time he was counting. "Not quite, sir. I was eight years old when Mr. Nixon-"
"Never mind!" Breen snapped. "My point is that you make me nervous sometimes, Maynard."
"Sir?"
"That crap you're shoveling about winning hearts and minds. Our people used to say that all the time in Nam. Went on and on about how the majority of dinks just loved us. Couldn't wait to help us kick the Commies out, they said. 'We're winning hearts and minds.' Thing is, we lost that war, in case you disremember."
"I recall that, sir. In fact-"
"In fact," Breen interrupted him, "I never put much stock in phone calls stirred up by a TV ad. Been my experience in thirty-nine years as a public servant that folks who'll take the time to call and praise you are the ones who would of voted for you anyhow. Same things for polls, most of 'em. Some guy asks a couple dozen people what they think about abortion or campaign finance reform and tries to say he knows what everybody's thinking. That's a pile of bullshit, and you know it well as I do."
"Sir, if you could try to keep your voice down..."
They were moving briskly toward the ninth-floor elevator in the east wing of the Crescent City Hilton, and they had the spacious hallway to themselves, but Grymsdyke nurtured his paranoia like a gift from God. He wasn't happy, Breen had long ago decided, if there did not seem to be at least the risk of spies and eavesdroppers. The threat of being overheard and somehow shafted with the very things he said made Grymsdyke feel important, useful, even vital to the cause. Without that feeling of supreme importance, Elmo Breen had long ago decided, Maynard Grymsdyke would have shriveled up and blown away.
There wasn't much left of him, as it was. Grymsdyke stood five foot two or three, almost completely bald, and weighed perhaps 120, counting shiny wingtips and the two mobile phones that he carried wherever he went. As if it weren't enough to have one with Call Waiting, in case some great thinker was trying to reach him and pour out the secrets of life. He wore one of the phones on his belt, while the other was snug in his left armpit, cradled in some kind of harness that looked like a holster. Breen used to call his flack and campaign manager "Two-Gun," until he saw how Maynard flinched each time and realized that he had hurt the stubby gofer's feelings. It had shamed him for a moment, as if he had been caught teasing a disabled child.