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  "Because there is nothing he cannot do. You must understand, Harmon. He is Sinanju."

  "What's that?"

  "Sinanju is a house of assassins."

  At the sound of the word assassin, Harmon Cashman spit out the half-chewed sticky pulp of an Oreo sandwich cookie. He stared at the dark blob on the rug, as if he were contemplating gobbling it back up. His eyes, sick with fear, went to the bland face of Enrique Esperanza. "Ricky . . ."

  "Yes. I did say 'assassin,' " Enrique Esperanza said calmly. "For many, many years the assassins of Sinanju worked for governments all over the Old World, protecting thrones and preventing wars."

  "You're joking!"

  "Have you ever known me to joke?"

  "Never. But I had to check. Okay, let's say this is true. What's this Chiun doing here?"

  "Obviously he was sent here."

  "To kill you?"

  "Hardly. To protect me."

  "I don't get it."

  Enrique Esperanza fixed Harmon Cashman with his soft, dark eyes. "It is very clear, Harmon. The Master of Sinanju has been sent here by his employer to protect my life and see that the election turns out a certain way."

  "Who would that be?"

  "I am not sure, but everything in my being tells me it is the President of the United States."

  "Oh, him," said Harmon Cashman. "The thank-you-note king."

  "Do not hold grudges. Because if what I believe is true, then our campaign has the blessing of the President, which virtually assures us of success."

  "Okay," Harmon said, digging out another chocolate cookie. "I'll buy it. But an assassin?"

  "Think of him as a protector."

  "And the Italian guy?" Harmon snapped his fingers. "What's his name . . . ? Remo?"

  "No doubt CIA. Probably a control agent. He is of no importance. What is of significance is the fact that the President of the United States employs an assassin."

  "I guess," Harmon Cashman said vaguely.

  "In spite of the congressional prohibition against assassination as a tool of Executive Branch policy."

  Harmon Cashman stopped in mid-bite. He looked up.

  "Are you saying we have some political dirt on the President?"

  "Such an unsavory way of putting it. Let us say that the President inadvertently has betrayed to us probably his greatest secret."

  "How's that gonna help the campaign?"

  "Harmon, my friend. Sometimes it is enough to know a secret, without turning it to one's advantage," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza quietly.

  Chapter 14

  The next day a gleaming, white-chocolate Mercedes tooled through Chinatown.

  It drew up before an ornate temple, and Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, resplendent in white, emerged. Harmon Cashman followed.

  The Master of Sinanju was there to greet him. He bowed once. Enrique Esperanza bowed in return.

  Esperanza looked around. His own image stared back from every wall and lamp post, and although he could not read the calligraphy under the multitude of identical faces, the sight of his repeated image gave him a warm feeling of hope.

  "You have done well," he said.

  "I have only begun," Chiun replied. And, raising his voice, the Master of Sinanju began to chant in a singsong voice.

  The words were unintelligible. But the reaction was immediate.

  From out of shops and tenements came curious Chinese.

  They gathered around as Chiun lifted his arms and began to speak. He gestured broadly, as if scolding the crowd.

  "Sounds like a harangue," whispered Harmon Cashman, in a worried voice. "Maybe I'd better break out some Oreos."

  "They will not be necessary."

  The harangue-or whatever it was-continued.

  At the end of it, a sea of blank, bland faces stared back.

  "They don't look very impressed," Cashman muttered uneasily.

  "How can one tell?" answered Enrique Esperanza, not a care evident in his voice or on his face.

  Then, while they were considering edging back to the car, the Chinese began to lift their voices.

  "Syiwang! Syiwang! Syiwang!"

  "What the heck are they saying?" muttered Harmon Cashman.

  "They are saying," said Enrique Esperanza proudly, " 'Hope.' "

  In Little Tokyo, it was the same.

  Only the word was Kibo.

  In Koreatown, it was Somang. To the Vietnamese of Little Saigon, it was Hyvong. Whatever the tongue, it was music to the ears of Harmon Cashman.

  "This is incredible!" he breathed. "You can hardly get the Chinese and Japanese to pay attention to local politics. And look at this! If that little guy can do this all over the state," he said enthusiastically, "we got the Asian vote sewed up slicker than a sackful of stray kittens."

  "He can."

  And once again, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza stepped forward to address the crowd. He spoke in English. The Master of Sinanju translated. The crowd applauded whenever the old Korean lifted his thin hands, as if responding to an applause sign.

  Harmon Cashman could only marvel at the sight.

  "If we could only move the white people this way," he said wistfully, as they walked back to the waiting Mercedes.

  "We will," promised Enrique Esperanza.

  "How? There aren't enough Oreos on the planet to hand out to everybody. If there were, our campaign war chest could go broke trying."

  "Harmon," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, "I wish you to alert the press that I will give an important speech at four o'clock this afternoon."

  "Done. Where?"

  "In South Central."

  "The barrio!"

  "South Central, yes."

  "But that's the Hispanic and black district!" Harmon protested. "You got the Hispanic vote in your hip pocket."

  "I am not going to South Central to sway the Hispanic vote," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza smoothly. "I am going there to court the white vote."

  "Ricky," Harmon Cashman said in a firm voice, "I think you've been out in the sun too long. Not only are there practically no whites to speak of down there, but it's downright dangerous. It's gang heaven. They have to send in the National Guard just to collect the garbage." "I have no fear."

  "I know you don't. But in everything you've done so far, you've showed good sense. People have already taken shots at you. Brown people. Your people. Why don't we move on to San Francisco? I know they'll love you up there."

  "Because I have not yet taken L.A. County," said Enrique Esperanza, gesturing to the Master of Sinanju, who was regaling the scattering crowd in their own tongue.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the Master of Sinanju caught the beckoning gesture of his candidate. He finished his remarks to the gathering crowd.

  "Remember. If you all vote intelligently, a person of correct color and properly shaped eyes will soon occupy a position of great importance in this province. This is all to your benefit. This is cultimulcherism at work. Vote early and often," he added, parroting a phrase he had heard spoken between whites in the campaign organization of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.

  Then, with a flourish of skirts, he returned to his candidate's side.

  "They are with you, gracious one," said Chiun.

  "That is good. This afternoon, I go to speak before the brown-skinned peoples."

  Chiun nodded. "As the prophet of cultimulcherism, it is proper that you do so."

  "But it is very dangerous down there," Enrique Esperanza continued. "There are young men with no futures, who carry guns and kill one another."

  "Their fates are sealed," Chiun promised.

  "No, no. I do not wish to vanquish them. That is not my way. It is my hope that they will join my cause. I know that they will be receptive to the message of Esperanza, if only they can be made to listen."

  "Their ears shall be your playthings," vowed the Master of Sinanju.

  "These young men go by certain names-the Crips and the Blood. The Crips wear blue bandannas. The Bloods wear red. Both
groups carry weapons."

  "They will carry their fingers loosely at their sides when you enter their domain in triumph," vowed the Master of Sinanju.

  "A driver will take you to this place," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, bowing.

  Jambo Jambone X-formerly Melvin Dicer-was all of fifteen, and had killed three men. The term "men" was open to debate, because none of the three members of the blue-jacketed Crips had lived long enough to graduate from high school before he had capped them.

  Jambo Jambone X-someone had told him it was a name with true African roots, and so he adopted it as a gesture of black pride and further insurance against paternity suits-considered himself a man. A man killed. Therefore he was a man. Anybody who said different had better watch where he trooped.

  Today, Jambo Jambone X was out to prove his manhood. He was going to pull out on someone. It didn't matter who. A cop was as good as a Crip. He might shoot a cop. It was good for a man's reputation to do that sometimes. As he aged, he noticed that younger members eyed him with increasing envy. They called him an "Original Gangster." Jambo Jambone X liked that.

  As he trooped along Century Boulevard, Jambo Jambone X noticed the white dude. Not many white dudes rolled through Century Boulevard. Not in broad daylight.

  There was something about this white guy, Jambo Jambone X thought. The way the dude walked, cool and casual like he owned Watts. He also, had the thickest wrists Jambo had ever seen. They looked like transplants from a different guy entirely.

  Jambo stopped on a corner to light up a cigarette. Really a frio-a menthol cigarette dipped in PCP. It helped to steady his gun hand.

  The white guy was looking around as he was walking along. He had deep eyes. Deep and cold. Cop eyes. Jambo Jambone X knew cop eyes on sight. This guy had cop eyes, no doubt about it.

  He wore tan chinos, and a white T-shirt that still had that crisp look that meant it had never seen the inside of washer. Brand-new. His arms were bare. No tattoos. No nothing. His clothes were too tight for him to be packing heavy. Maybe a .38 in an ankle holster, at most.

  Jambo Jambone X packed a Glock 9. Fifteen-round clip. A man's tool. You just point and pull. Didn't hardly have to aim.

  Because he was dead-certain that the skinny guy with the wrists like two-by-fours was an undercover Gang Unit detective, Jambo Jambone X decided that he would put the muzzle of his Glock to the guy's white face and pull the trigger way down.

  And because he made that fateful decision, Jambo Jambone X was destined to undergo a unique life-affirming experience.

  The white guy walked over to a pay phone. He dropped a quarter in the slot and leaned on the one button with his thumb. Jambo noticed that especially. It was not something people normally did.

  He decided it was further confirmation that the guy was a cop. Probably it was some secret cop number he was dialing.

  Jambo reached into the inner pocket of his camo varsity jacket and felt the warm plastic handle of his Glock. He slipped up behind the guy on his quiet pump sneakers while he was speaking into the phone.

  "That's right, Smitty. No sign of Chiun. If Esperanza is going to make an appearance down here, I'd better get to work. Otherwise we'll have a bloodbath. This place is practically a war zone."

  "You got that right, jack," said Jambo Jambone X, whipping out his high-impact plastic pistol and putting it to the back of the white cop's head. "And you be the next statistic." His brown finger caressed the trigger. Caressing the trigger was a trick an older Blood had taught him. He had bubbled out the secret as he lay dying, saying it was his wish to pass on the one great truth he had learned in life before he died, the sum total of eighteen rich years on the street.

  "You don't jerk the trigger. You kinda squeeze it. Keeps the sight on the guy you wanna do."

  "Squeeze?" Jambo had asked.

  "Yeah. Uhhhh." A fountain of blood erupted from the Blood's mouth. Jambo thanked the man as he stripped the corpse of valuables, including the Glock 9 he first used to practice the secret art of squeezing the trigger. He quickly discovered that it worked. After that, he hardly ever popped preschoolers when he was aiming at their older relatives.

  So, with the white dude's head before his muzzle, Jambo Jambone X began to squeeze the trigger, not yank it back hard.

  He was eternally grateful he remembered to do this. He even said a prayer for the repose of the soul of his dead brother, whose name he no longer remembered.

  "Jesus Lord, you watch out for his black ass," murmured Jambo Jambone X, as the cold sweat oozed down his forehead and washed his dark face.

  The prayer made him feel much, much better-although it did nothing to clarify the situation confronting him. This was new. He would have to think this through. What does a Blood do when he finds himself with his finger on his own trigger and his Glock tucked up under his chin?

  This was definitely new. It would take extra thought. The first thing Jambo Jambone X thought to do was figure out what had happened.

  He had been about to smoke the white cop when the dude, casual as can be, had turned around and taken hold of Jambo's steady wrists with the fingers of one cool hand.

  The Glock was under his own chin directly after that. Couldn't have taken the blink of a rat's eye.

  In this unique circumstance, Jambo Jambone X felt moved to compliment the white dude. "You cool, jack. You the downest."

  "Keep it down," said the cool cop in an equally cool voice. "I'll finish with you when I'm through with my conversation."

  "Take your time," said Jambo Jambone X respectfully.

  The cool cop continued doing his thing.

  "Yeah. Right. I'll be in touch, Smitty."

  The cool cop hung up the phone. Jambo Jambone X heard the phone mechanism click the quarter into the change-return slot. The dude was so cool he didn't even check the slot. That was way cool.

  Still holding on to Jambo's wrist with a grip that felt like a redwood tree had grown up and around it, the cool cop started talking.

  "I'm looking for a friend," he said.

  "You got one. I am your friend for life, which I hope extends beyond the millennium what is comin'."

  "Glad to hear it. But I already got a friend. He's about five feet tall, old as your mother's reputation, and he wears a Korean kimono."

  "I know what a Korean is, but the kimono part's got me stumped."

  "It's like a robe."

  "Ain't seen no robe Korean," Jambo said.

  "Tell you what, you help me look for him and I'll give you a quarter."

  "A whole quarter?" asked Jambo Jambone X, who just last week had cleared three grand selling crack back of the high school. He wouldn't pick a quarter off the soles of his pumps, ordinarily. But the quarter the dude now offered meant his Glock wouldn't go off with his chin under it.

  "No teeth marks, either. How about it?"

  "Deal. Do I get my wrist back?"

  "Sure."

  The cool dude's fingers came away, leaving white marks and a spreading numbness. The numbness made Jambo drop his Glock.

  The cool dude caught it up in one hand. His hand was like a blur. The other hand joined it, and they started squeezing the Glock like it was dirty tinfoil.

  "Only it didn't make a tinfoil kinda sound," said Jambo Jambone X, a few minutes later at a crack house on Manchester Street.

  "Yeah?" said Jambo's right arm, Dexter Dogget. "What did it sound like?"

  "Like . . . like . . . like the guy was mushing up Silly Putty."

  "What's Silly Putty?" asked a thirteen-year-old, wiping oil off the breech of his Mac-11.

  "They used to have it when I was a kid, back before kids had guns," Jambo explained. "They played with this stuff. It's kinda like chewing gum, only you don't chew it."

  "How high it get you?"

  Jambo had to think about that one.

  "Pretty damn buzzed, but not the way you know," he said truthfully.

  "You been doing PCP again, Jambo?"

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact."r />
  "Better take a hit of this stuff. Clear your head."

  Jambo swiped the tinfoil crack pipe away.

  "Don't need that!" he snapped. "This is serious. We gotta help the cool dude find his friend."

  "Why?"

  "Because I got a feelin' bad things gonna happen to us if we don't," Jambo said truthfully.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "This white guy, he could rule the 'hood if he had a mind. I seen it in the way he carried himself. No lie."

  The other Bloods conferred among themselves. The discussion was brief. There were only two options raised. Smoke Jambo to shut up his stupid face, or go along.

  "I say we go along," said Dexter. "Man who smokes the white guy and shows up Jambo rules the Blood. Any dissent?"

  There was none. Smiling faces came out of the huddle.

  "Lead the way and we'll take the day," said Dexter.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" asked Jambo, as they strolled out.

  "Who cares?" he was told. "It rhyme, don't it?"

  Jambo frowned. Things are deteriorating. In the old days, about three-four months ago, everybody could lay down a cool rap. Now they'd become a bunch of mushmouths. What the hell was going on? They were doing only premium blow.

  They found the old Korean on Compton Street, putting a poster on a peeling stucco wall that was covered with competing gangs' graffiti, until it was like a dead computer screen covered with the fading ghosts of its memory banks.

  "Hey, you-old guy!" Jambo called.

  The old Korean declined to turn around. Deep in thought, he positioned and repositioned the poster several times.

  "We lookin' for you."

  "Yeah," added Dexter. "Wanna word with you. You coverin' up our spray."

  "I'll take this," said Jambo Jambone X, striding up to the guy.

  "You deaf, coot?"

  The old Korean looked up, as if noticing Jambo Jambone X for the first time.

  Jambo Jambone X received two simultaneous impressions of the old Korean.

  One, that his face was a network of wrinkles.

  Two, that his eyes somehow reminded him of the cool white dude's eyes. There was the same scary confidence in them.

  This second impression made more of an impression.

  Jambo Jambone X had just started to backpedal to safety when a bony yellow claw took hold of his throat and squeezed. Jambo started choking. His tongue came out of his mouth.