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on a good day. On the rest, they're just stupid as a sack of doorknobs." He
was annoyed at his teacher for wasting time with the Australian ditz.
"I'm a producer," Cindee corrected.
"Same pot, different crack," Remo said.
"You do not listen to anyone older than forty-nine?" Chiun interjected,
steering her back to what was now, for him, the main point.
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"Not if I can help it," Cindee said. "No offense, but that's just the way the
business works."
"What of the wisdom derived from age and experience?" Chiun said, astonished.
"They mean nothing to you?"
"Sorry," Cindee said. "Now him," she added, pointing at Remo. "He's in the
right demo group. His opinion holds weight."
"Go cuddle a kangaroo," opined Remo.
Chiun thrust his hands deep in the sleeves of his kimono. "You and my son have
much in common," he said unhappily. "He, too, believes that people of a
certain age have nothing more to contribute to the world. He has often said
that he would send all of us over sixty-five on buses to the cemetery today,
just to save the young the time and expense of having to bother with funerals
later on."
"Not true. Not listening," Remo said. He was leaning over, hands on his
knees.
Chiun nodded to Cindee. "It is true, no matter what he tells you," he
confided.
"Hey, lady," Rema said, ignoring the old man, "you're a TV expert. Does this
look like a little TV to you?"
Cindee went over to him. She peered down at the object that had so fascinated
the two men.
"Yeah," she said. "It's one of those little handheld numbers you get at the
mall."
The plastic case was cracked, the electronic guts spilled out onto the road.
The mini-television set looked as if it had been crushed flat by hundreds of
stomping feet.
"So that's one, too?" Remo said.
He pointed a few feet away. There was another small television there, no
bigger than a person's palm. Near it were two others. All of them had been
stomped by the mob.
When Cindee looked around, she saw that there were dozens of crushed
televisions around the area. They were mixed in with the rest of the street
litter.
Cindee's pretty little Australian nose crinkled in confusion. "Why are all
those TVs here?" she asked.
"I don't know," Remo said. "Ordinarily, I'd say that a cop shot a black
murderer and the community expressed its outrage that a killer got killed by
helping itself to the inventory of the local electronics store. But this is
Harlem. There isn't a lootable Circuit City within a trillion-mile radius."
He stood back up.
"Any thoughts, Little Father?" Remo asked.
"Why do you care what I think?" Chiun sniffed.
"Okay, had enough of that already," Remo said. He turned back to Cindee. "I
wonder who dropped these here. How long have you been here?"
"I just got here about ten minutes ago," she replied.
"So you didn't see the mob?"
Cindee's face sagged. "Don't remind me," she griped. "By the sounds of it, we
didn't get any usable footage."
"What do you mean, footage?" Remo asked.
Cindee huffed impatiently. "For 'Winner,'" she explained. "We're taping in the
area."
Remo recognized the name of the program. It had been on the television in the
lobby of General Zhii Zaw's hotel in Cancun.
"That stupid TV show?" he asked. "I saw part of it just the other day. It
looked like you were filming in Bosnia."
"We're not," she said, sounding almost as if she wished they were. "We're
right around the corner from here. And don't remind me that they decided to
run more than just the Thursday-night episode this week. The network is going
to run us into the ground putting us on two nights a week. They said it's only
because of the holiday next week. It better be. We don't want a 'Millionaire'
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overexposure problem. Of course, it might be okay to double up if we had some
action to blast into people's living rooms. That mob would have been great for
background-you know, set the stage on the real-life hardships in Harlem. Show
how gritty these streets can get. But the three cameramen we had on the scene
panicked and ran. They didn't even get the murder on tape."
"What murder?"
Cindee clapped a hand over her mouth. "Forget I said that," she insisted.
"Gladly," said the Master of Sinanju, bored. He was watching the gathering
crowd of reporters, which by now filled the sidewalks around the former
president's office building in numbers greater than the previous night's mob.
"Was one of the people on the show killed?" Remo asked.
"I'm not confirming or denying," Cindee said quickly. "You'll have to watch
and see. We're taping what will be week eight right now, and next week's
episode will only be the second week of the season, so you have a while to
go."
Rema shook his head. "Not me," he said. "I do reality, not reality shows. Your
little friend wants you."
He pointed down the sidewalk. Cindee's assistant was waving for Cindee to join
her. She and a Winner cameraman had cornered an interview subject on the
sidewalk. Cindee hurried over to join them. Remo and Chiun followed.
The two Sinanju Masters were careful to avoid the many cameras. There were
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