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said. "Now you tell me, you blind or just stupid?"
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"I'm with the federal government, so you make the call," Remo said, pulling
out an ID and giving it a quick glance before presenting it to the trooper.
"Remo Baggins, National Tobacco, Firearms and Alcohol Association."
"From who now? You mean ATF? Partner, this ain't a federal case. No
nationwides are invited."
"There was something in the booze that caused it, so that makes it the
business of the booze bureau."
The trooper's lips went tight. "You wait right here." He scurried off, never
noticing the pair was silently tailing him, but the Masters halted when a
white limousine turned into the lot and rolled to a stop on crunching gravel.
"Do you see, Remo? People of wealth come here. It is a place of importance in
musical history."
"Yeah." The limo received personal service from one of Tennessee's finest. A
trooper chatted with the driver, but Remo was more interested in the figures
behind the dark glass in the back seat. "You mean they aren't reopening
tonight?" asked a voice from the rear. Whoever he was, he was hidden behind
the bulk of a bodyguard.
The trooper chuckled politely and explained that it would take hours to
process the crime scene and, no, the place would not be reopening tonight. The
figure in the back stared past his hired muscle, taking it all in. Then he
stared fixedly at Remo-it was the voyeur gaze of a man who knew he could see
but, behind the dark glass, not be seen.
But this time he was wrong. Remo adjusted his vision to compensate for the
refraction of the flashing light that turned the windows into mirrors, at the
same time adjusting the angle of his face so that the headlights of the
nearest squad car put his own face in shadow.
But the man in back never moved out from behind the bodyguard. Remo saw only
the eyes.
Then the limo rolled away.
REMO AND CHIUN FOUND the cavernous interior of the Big Stomp crowded with
uncollected corpses, shattered furniture, and the stench of spilled beer
turning sour under hot crime-scene lights.
"Yeesh. The Big Stomp is a big dump," Remo said. "So how come you've heard of
it?"
"It is renowned throughout the world," Chiun said.
"Which world we talking about?" The stark white police lights hid none of the
shabbiness of the peeling wall paint, the scratched floor or the water-stained
ceiling tiles.
"This is where the career of Wylander Jugg blasted off," the old Korean
explained.
"Launched?"
"Before she became a star, the comely Wylander was performing here without
appreciation of her marvelous talents, until a musical agent came to see her
show. Even in this foul place her brilliance shone, and the musical agent took
her under his wing."
"Ah. Many things now makes sense to me about Wylander Jugg." Remo looked down
at a body inside a chalk outline. The broken end of a beer bottle protruded
from the stomach of a man with a week's growth of shaggy beard.
"Nasty, ain't it?" asked the man taking pictures.
"Looks like a prop from a Patrick Swayze movie," Remo commented.
The photographer screwed up his face. "Dirty Dancing?"
"I wish. Who did all this running amok?"
"Who didn't?" the photographer said. "The whole place went nuts. Started out
with one little fight on the dance floor, and next thing you know everybody
was brawlin' everybody. We had five bodies when we got here and we musta sent
fifty wounded to the Methodist hospital."
"Were they lucid?" Remo asked.
"Were they who?"
"You know, were they thinking clearly? Or kind of confused?"
"Oh. Definitely more like kinda confused. None of ' em seems to know what
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happened. None of 'em even knows who did the killin'."
"Can I help you?" demanded a county official with a sheriff's badge pinned on
his rumpled white shirt. "You federals are not supposed to be here."
"Just asking a few questions," Remo said. "Won't take long."
"Let me see your identification:"
Remo thrust his badge at the sheriff. "Where's your witnesses?" he asked the
photographer.
"Don't answer that, Aberle!" the sheriff snapped. "What about him? You gonna
try and tell me he's ATF, too?" The sheriff nodded at Chiun, who watched
stoically with his hands tucked neatly in the sleeves of a scarlet kimono. .
Remo tried to remember what Chiun's ID said. "Who're you with again, Little
Father?"
"CLECIC," Chiun chirped without hesitation. Remo and the sheriff were equally
befuddled. "Huh?" the lawman demanded.
"Congressional Law Enforcement Corruption Investigation Committee," Chiun
explained in his pleasant singsong.
"There ain't no such thing!" the sheriff insisted. "Let me see your damn-"
The sheriff stopped talking and stopped moving. His mouth hung open, ready to
complete the expletive. The photographer found it very curious. He also found
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