"Slay?"
"Consider it an offering toward future employment, should you assume the throne of this fine nation."
"He doesn't mean that, either," Remo said hastily. "This isn't how you negotiate with rulers in this country, Little Father. "
"Hush, Remo. I know how to deal with rulers."
"If there is something specific I can do for you, be good enough to state it plainly," said Governor Princippi. "I am very busy."
"We'd like to see the letter Tulip sent you."
"Out of the question."
"Why?"
"I do not share my personal correspondence with others. Especially people who don't carry identification."
"Then you still have it?" suggested Chiun.
Michael Princippi hesitated. His eyes darted to his open briefcase. "Possibly," he said.
"That is all we need to know," said Chiun. "Come, Remo. "
"Wait a minute, Little Father, We're not done here."
"I think you are," said Michael Princippi.
"Listen to the man, your possible future employer," Chiun told Remo as he tugged him toward the door. He paused to speak parting words to the governor. "We are going now. May you have much success in your quest for power, and always remember, a good assassin is the true power behind the throne. And among good assassins the name of Sinanju rises above all the others."
"It's not like it sounds," said Remo, closing the door. "We're really nice people. Smith too. Please keep that in mind, just in case."
"Come, Remo," said Chiun.
Remo closed the door after him.
Out in the corridor, Remo stopped the Master of Sinanju. "Why'd you yank me out of there like that? Smith wants that letter. You could have at least let me keep talking."
"A waste of time," said the Master of Sinanju. "I know where the letter is."
"You do?"
"I am constantly surprised by your astonishment over my amazing powers," said Chiun.
"Huh?"
"Never mind," said Chiun. "You have just solved that riddle for me. I will explain. Did you notice that man's eyes when I asked him if he still had the letter?"
"Not particularly."
"They sought his briefcase. The letter is in that."
"That doesn't put it in our hands."
"No, but it makes our task easier. We will steal the letter."
"Is that a good idea?" Remo asked.
"Success is always a good idea. We will wait until nightfall. Then we will return and rescue the letter for Smith."
"If you say so, Little Father," said Remo as they walked out the front of the State House. State troopers regarded them curiously. "But what do we do in the meantime?"
"We will find a quiet place to sit," said Chiun, extracting the blue-ribboned parchment scroll from inside his coat. "I have an important matter to attend to."
"Want help?" asked Remo, looking at the scroll with a puzzled expression.
"Yes," said Chiun, spotting an empty bench in front of the building. "You can shoo the pigeons away so that I may concentrate. "
"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind."
"How can you tell?" cackled Chiun as he settled onto the bench. "Its emptiness is so vast. Heh, heh. Its emptiness is so vast. Heh heh."
Chapter 14
Antonio Serrano thought he was big-time.
He ruled Trenton Street. He had ruled it since his fifteenth birthday, last December 17. He hoped to rule it when he turned sixteen. Beyond that, who knew? On Trenton Street, even the rulers did not make it much past sixteen, not without moving from the neighborhood.
Antonio Serrano could have moved. He made over one thousand dollars a week. He drove a green Cadillac convertible that cornered liked a parade float. He had plenty of girls. Good-looking girls with plenty of blue eye shadow and tight skirts they bought at the Eastie Mall. He could have lived anywhere. But Antonio had grown up on this street. He would be lost without this street. This was Eastie Goombah territory and Antonio Serrano was the head of the Eastie Goombahs.
Antonio Serrano started off boosting stereos from cars. He had moved up to the big time, dealing crack. That was where the money was. He sold it himself, on street corners and in the school playgrounds, and if there was trouble he had the Goombahs to back him up. The Goombahs got their cut. They also were the ones who got cut when the crap started flying.
Antonio had gotten cut in the old days when he was new to the Eastie Goombahs. That was a long time ago, back in 1986. Antonio had gotten tired of being a grunt and stepped into the leadership position of the Goombahs when the old leader, Alphonse Tedesco, had his stomach ripped open by a gang of blacks from the South End. Alphonse was history. Hell, he had been an old man, practically. He was nearly nineteen when he died.
There was a time when being an Eastie gang member meant hanging around street corners, hustling protection money from people walking through the neighborhood, and carrying a switch blade or, at best, a zip gun. Antonio Serrano had seen an old movie on TV once, which showed how it had been. It made him laugh. Why, compared to those dinks, he was the modern man and they were Neanderthals. He carried a chrome-plated Colt Python revolver. When he needed more muscle, he dug a semiautomatic Uzi machine pistol out from under the seat cushions of his Caddy.
Still, he wasn't as evolved as he'd like to think. Standing on street corners extorting protection money was one Eastie tradition that Antonio would not allow to die.
Antonio lounged at the corner of Trenton and Marion streets, picking at his orange mesh shirt, a silver crucifix hanging from one ear. He was unhappy. Only old ladies passed him on the street, carrying groceries from Tony's Spa. Old ladies never carried much money and they were too much trouble to rob. Besides, most of them knew him by sight.
He gave some thought to sticking up Tony's Spa, just for kicks, but Tony had been robbed so many times that he was talking about moving to the North Shore, away from innercity crime. Antonio decided it wasn't worth whatever was in the till to risk losing the only convenience store in the neighborhood and went back to picking at his shirt. For some reason, he felt itchy tonight.
A little black foreign car slid around the corner in Antonio's direction, moving slowly.
Antonio watched it curiously, wondering if he was about to be hit. People were always looking to take his action, small as it was in the billion-dollar drug trade. But the car was too wimpy. No self-respecting wise guy would drive a little foreign jobbie like that. Besides, it had Maine license plates. As far as Antonio knew, there was no such thing as the Mafia up in Maine. Wherever that was. He had heard it was someplace north. Or was he thinking of Canada?
The car rolled to a stop down the street and Antonio reached down the front of his jeans, where he kept his Colt. He thought it was macho to wear it there. Also the barrel bulged up his crotch something fierce. The chicks really dug that.