“You remember the tour bus that those idiots from Union Island drove to Mollywood? You fell in love with it And before that you were all gaga about a yacht”
Chiun tapped the polished, salmon-colored countertop experimentally like a skater testing the ice. Remo knew from the sound that the cabinets were solid and well-constructed, probably more durable than the original equipment. But, man, that sure was a lot of salmon-colored Formica.
“Well made,” Chiun announced in Korean.
“So?”
“This craftsman succeeded in recreating the original lines and palette.”
“Why am I not surprised that you’re an antique RV buff?”
The salesman—who was sweaty and had the sporadically racing pulse of the meat-eating, habitually deceptive type—was almost in tears. Remo guessed he was profoundly disappointed because the Korean conversation kept him out just when he needed to exploit a weakness.
Breck, whose name tag read HI, THE NAME’S BRECK!, perked up and nodded at the English word “RV.”
“What power level?” Chiun demanded as he turned the stove on again to its highest setting.
“Power?”
“Power! How high does this get?”
The salesman fussed over the stove until he got the grate out of a front burner and discovered a label. “Eight thousand BTUs.”
“And this means what?”
“It’s a nice little stove….”
“It is
The salesman was in a rare state. He’d never quite had a sale go this way before.
“We could always put in more powerful burners.”
“How powerful?”
“I think we can get something at about fifteen thousand BTUs, maybe even higher if we go to a commercial kitchen supplier. I’ll need to talk to my brother—”
“The bunks—how much time would it require to have them removed?”
“Removed? I’m not sure. We’ve never had that request. I can find out—”
“The carpet?”
“Very plush, isn’t it?”
“It is hideous!”
“We’ll rip it out in no time.”
“And replace it with what?”
“How—how—-how about a linoleum that matches the original equipment?” The salesman’s heart was racing, stymied at every turn but convinced he was close to a big sale.
“What would be put in the place of the master bedroom bunk?” Chiun demanded.
“What would you like? Storage closets? Library? Meditation room?”
The vintage RV with the new-car smell went quiet as a tomb. The salesman didn’t know why. Had he insulted the old man with an Oriental stereotype? Had he cost himself a sale?
“Remo, a meditation chamber!”
“Be kind of squeaky for meditating.” Remo knew that resistance was futile, but he had to put up a token fight. “Why squeaky?” Chiun chirped.
“Yes, why would it be squeaky?” the salesman asked, sincerely not understanding.
“This thing’s solid as a New York City bus, Chiun,” Remo pointed out. “It’s got a thousand bolted-together parts that will be creaking and settling and moaning even when it’s standing still. How are you gonna meditate in all that racket?”
“A house does the same thing—the two-flat settles constantly,” Chiun argued.
“Yeah, well, imagine the two-flat if it was made from an Erector set by a kid who can’t get the screws really tight—that’s what it would be like trying to meditate in an RV.”
Chiun glared. “You want to deny me a proper home.”
“The two-flat’s proper.”
“Look at me,” Chiun said to the salesman. “What is wrong with me that I should be treated with disrespect?”
Remo jumped in before the salesman even hinted at an answer that could get him killed. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and you can have any kind of house you want. So why not a house with room, something solid? Maybe a mansion. Hell, we’re just a stone’s throw from that Victorian bed-and-breakfast that you liked in Oklahoma City. Let’s go buy it and have it moved out east”
“Fah! Victorian is unsightly as that junkyard beyond the fence.”
“You told me you liked that place.”
“You are mistaking me with someone else.”
Remo sighed. “How about another church? I mean, another Castle Sinanju. In Boston, even. The Boston Catholic franchise must be having a fire sale these days to pay off the lawyers of abused kids. We’ll go make them an offer on the biggest, god-awfullest piece of Christian architecture we can find. Then we’ll rip the insides out. Wouldn’t that be fun? And we’ll redo it however you want.”
Chiun considered it. “You would be amenable to such a home?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I seem to recall you mentioning, once, a dislike for the Boston castle.”
“No,” Remo said sincerely. “You are mistaking me with someone else.”
Chiun nodded, then turned on the salesman. “Remo is right.”
“He is?”
“I am?”
“This dwelling is not sturdy! I need one built to a higher degree of strength.”
Remo gave up and slumped on the plastic sofa, trying not to breathe its particles.
