Chiun turned to face the glass balcony doors. He looked out upon the blazing
San Diego night skyline, his bearded chin high.
"My loyalties are torn," he said, bleak-voiced. "I do not know what I should
do. I serve Smith, yet Esperanza has promised me the treasurership of
California. It is in my interest to eliminate his enemies before they grow too
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powerful."
"Little Father, you owe me a boon."
Chiun nodded.
"The boon I request is that you be satisfied with protecting Esperanza, not
hurting the other candidates."
"You are certain you wish this?" Chiun asked thinly.
"Actually, I'd like to save my boon for a time I might need it more, but I'm
on the spot here."
The Master of Sinanju turned, his wrinkled face Then wreathed in a smile.
"Then you may step off your spot, for I agree to this."
"Good," said Remo.
"It is better than good," Chiun cackled. "Because it was my intention to do
this all along. Heh heh. You have what you wish, and I have your boon. Heh
heh."
Remo Williams didn't join in the Master of Sinanju's cackle of mirth. He was
thinking ahead to the time when Chiun learned the truth about Cheeta Ching. He
was sure to need that boon then.
He had planned to ask Chiun not to kill him.
Chapter 28
It was called the Conference on Multiculturalism.
It was supposed to be called the California Gubernatorial Debate, but the
Barry Black camp had insisted on the new name so that Enrique Espiritu
Esperanza couldn't claim the multicultural high ground for himself.
"Done," said Harmon Cashman, through a mouthful of chocolate wafer. "This is
easier than I thought!" he chortled, after hanging up on the Black campaign.
Rona Ripper's demand was much simpler.
"My candidate insists that this be a standing debate," said her campaign
director.
"You got it," Harmon told the man, who had mysteriously taken the place of the
former campaign director, Blaise Perrin. The press was still trying to figure
out what had happened to him. He'd simply dropped out of sight, along with
Cheeta Ching. Not that anyone missed her.
Harmon took the good news to Enrique Esperanza.
"Both camps have agreed," he said. "Black's people are going to jump on the
multicultural bandwagon."
"This is fine. Multiculturalism should not belong to one man."
"And Ripper's people say we gotta stand, because Rona's rear end hasn't healed
yet."
Esperanza shook his head. "The poor woman."
"Any demands you want to make before we finalize this?"
"Yes, I wish that Miss Ripper stand between Mr. Black and myself."
"Why?"
Enrique Esperanza shrugged. "It is merely whim. They have demands, so I must
make one. We do not wish to show weakness at this late stage."
"I'll run it past the others. But I'm sure they'll go along. Hell, the fact
that they're willing to debate you means both camps are running scared."
"My polls are good?"
Harmon grinned. "The numbers are running our way, all right."
"Good. I think this is one time the dark horse will run in the money."
And both men laughed, Enrique Esperanza through his broad grin and Harmon
Cashman through a mouthful of black-and-white cookie crumbs.
On the day of the Conference on Multiculturalism, an auditorium at Stanford
University-the birthplace of Multiculturalism, according to the press releases
issued by all three campaigns-was packed with representatives of the press and
an audience of business and civic leaders from all over the state.
An unusual precaution was a long sheet of bulletproof Plexiglas that ran the
length of the stage. This was to protect the candidates from any would-be
assassin.
The press complained about the reflections their camera lights created, but no
one demanded it be taken down.
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Bulletproof limousines brought the candidates to the debate hall. Rona Ripper
arrived first, and was escorted to a waiting room behind the curtain by state
troopers.
Barry Black, Junior arrived in a pastry truck. His staff carted him in
concealed in a balsa-wood pyramid covered with almondine frosting, on the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]