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that. They are virtually laying siege to the house."
Remo groaned. "Oh, no."
"What is it?" Smith asked.
"That means Cheeta Ching is sure to be there, yapping at the head of the
pack," Remo said unhappily.
"I am sure you will find a way to avoid her," Smith said dryly.
"Count on it," Remo said, hanging up.
On his way to the car, Remo was accosted by a thinvoiced young man, with a
kerchief hanging out his back pocket and another one loose about his throat.
"Hello, sailor," he said, smiling. "Going my way?"
"If your way is what I think it is, not in your lifetime."
"How about a detour?"
"How about you suck your thumb?"
"Not what I had in mind."
Remo tapped the man's right elbow, forcing him to grab his funny bone, but the
words sputtering out of his mouth weren't funny.
Remo quieted the man by inserting one of his own thumbs into his mouth and
freezing his jaw muscles closed with a paralyzing tap.
"You don't know 'til you try it," he said.
Remo left him sucking on his thumb while walking in circles, trying to shake
the pins and needles from his arm.
He still wondered what that whistling was.
The Pacific Park home of Barry Black, Junior could be seen clearly from the
foot of the hill where Remo had parked his car.
It was a sprawling Victorian that was equal parts Bohemia and Addams Family.
The house was painted a pumpkin-orange, with jet-black shutters. There was a
Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign over the front door. The weathervane sticking up
from the chimney pot was in the shape of a yin-yang sign, and seemed to have
rusted one day when there was a brisk east wind blowing.
The house must have been a hundred years old, but the peaked roof was a modern
mosaic of solar panels, spaceage satellite dishes, and ordinary Plexiglas
skylights.
The steep street leading up to the house was lined with microwave satellite
vans. Most were empty. Remo could see the front walk of the orange-and-black
monstrosity. That was where the local press had camped out. A few were
skulking through the hedges, which had been sculpted, apparently, in the
shapes of endangered species. At least Remo thought he recognized a dodo.
Remo also recognized Cheeta Ching. The Korean anchor was at the cellar door,
trying to detach the padlock with her teeth.
Spying the van belonging to the local affiliate of the network that employed
her, Remo slipped up to it. He was in luck. There was a driver sitting behind
the wheel, looking bored.
Remo tapped on the glass. It was rolled down.
"Yeah?" asked the driver.
Remo smiled. "I'm with the medical lab," he said brightly.
"What medical lab?"
"The one Cheeta Ching uses. I got good news for her. The rabbit died."
The driver's bored eyes got unbored. "That is good news! In fact, it's great
news! She'll probably be on the first jet back to New York after she hears
this."
"You wanna deliver the message?" Remo asked.
"A pleasure," the driver said, bolting from the van.
Grinning, Remo retreated to the backyard of an adjacent house to await
developments.
"This ought to be great," he said to himself.
To his surprise, the driver didn't even try to look for Cheeta. Instead, he
jumped into the milling mass of media representatives and began spreading the
joyous news.
"Cheeta's gonna drop one!" he howled.
The pack broke in all directions.
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"Everyone loves good news," Remo chortled.
And as he watched, Cheeta Ching was pounced upon.
The questions flew fast and furious.
"Miss Ching, is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That you're with child."
"Who said that? My husband?"
"The lab said the rabbit died."
Cheeta turned predatory. "It did? What's your source for that? Did the rabbit
have a name? Did he suffer?"
"Your driver told us. He just heard the word."
"I'm preggers!" Cheeta shrieked, throwing up her hands.
Then a strange look came over her flat face. Like an Asian Gorgon, Cheeta
Ching lowered her sticky-haired head until she was looking up from under her
perfect viper eyebrows into a ring of minicam lenses.
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