Warren Murphy: Lost Yesterday

“May I sit down?”

“An emperor need not ask,” said Chiun.

“I want to know how much of Remo's training is in his mind.”

“O gracious one, you have never asked about training in Remo before. Is something wrong?”

“You had said he was not up to peak.”

“He is more than adequate for the minor tasks he has been assigned.”

“I am curious,” said Smith. He sat down. “If, as you say, I am an emperor, then I show an emperor's curiosity in my most valued servant, the great Master of Sinanju.”

“The President hasn't died by accident?” asked Chiun, suddenly horrified.

“No,” said Smith. “I wish to know how much training is in the mind.”

“It is all in the mind,” said Chiun.

“Then if a substance reaches the brain, Remo could forget everything.”

“I did not say his training was in the brain.”

“You said mind.”

“The brain is part of the mind. But the mind is what the body knows and remembers, the mind is the receptacle for the person, and the person is beyond it. Even the first breath of an infant is the mind.”

“What are you saying?”

“I couldn't be clearer,” said Chiun.

“Suppose Remo were to succumb to this potion we are seeking that takes away memory. How much of your training would remain?”

“That which is not in the brain, but in the mind is the receptacle for what is him. Do you understand?” said Chiun. He had spoken slowly so Smith could not miss the obvious.

“No. Let me be more specific. Before you started to train Remo, he was a policeman in Newark, New Jersey. Might he forget that? What would he remember?”

“He would remember everything he needs, but he would not know all he remembers,” said Chiun. “Now, is it time for you to become rightful emperor, and for Sinanju to embark publicly upon your glory?”

“No. Not yet. Is there any chance that Remo would return to his old neighborhood if he were afflicted with this memory loss?”

“That depends upon what neighborhood he was raised in.”

“Why?”

“Because some meridians of the universe affect his mind more strongly than others. He is Sinanju.”

“Newark, New Jersey.”

“The one afterward is the state, yes?”

“New Jersey is the state.”

“And he was a form of constabulary there?”

“Yes, he was a policeman. Would that matter?”

“Everything matters,” said Chiun, which was not a lie. But he was counting on Smith hearing it wrong, like most Westerners heard things wrong.

Everything did matter. But that Remo had been a policeman in this Newark, New Jersey, did not matter to his mind at all. Smith had told Chiun all he had to for Chiun to know what was really going on.

And what Chiun knew, and Smith did not, was that the world was always filled with emperors and tyrants and kings and what the Americans called presidents. They were everywhere. But there was only one Remo. And he was Chiun's. And Chiun would never let him go.

* * *

Captain Edwin Polishuk was two weeks away from retirement, and counting the days and minutes as he had once counted the years and months and days and minutes, when a nightmare happened to him. It happened when he went into Tullio's, a restaurant-bar that featured extra-thick roast-beef sandwiches. Captain Polishuk not only never paid his bill, but the owner left him a tip.

The owner left the tip in a white envelope every week as he had been doing since Polishuk had taken over the precinct. Then Captain Polishuk would normally move on to other establishments in his precinct and at the end of the day meet his own payroll to his own men who did his special favors. Perhaps it was really disguised self-hatred, but Captain Ed Polishuk took enormous pleasure in turning young police recruits into bagmen like himself.

The honest cops were given the worst assignments. Polishuk was as notorious in Newark, New Jersey, as he was safe. Ed Polishuk knew where to spread the money, and if he didn't, he always managed to buy the right information to keep himself safe. He had been up on charges three times and gotten off three times, despite the roaring anger of the mayor and half the City Council. Ed Polishuk was the cop no one could get.

But on this Friday, with the roast beef dripping rich brown gravy on the crisp white Italian bread, he was to pay for it all. He didn't even get a chance to take the first bite.

“Ed? Is that you? Ed?”

A young man in his late twenties, thirty at most, with thick wrists, was holding back Polishuk's hands. There were few things more enjoyable in the world than Tullio's roast beef.

“My name is Captain Polishuk.”

“Yeah. Ed. Ed. That's you. Hey, you shouldn't be eating at Tullio's. It's a numbers drop. They're going to raid it next week. No. Not next week. I got trouble with time, Ed. Is that really you? I can't believe it. You put on thirty pounds. Your face is sagging, but that's you, Ed Polishuk.”

“Son, I don't know who you are, but if you don't let go of my hands, I'm going to put you through the wall.”

“You can't do that. Your arteries are clogged. You can't move well enough.”

Ed Polishuk took his two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle and flesh and yanked down his hands.

They didn't yank. The sandwich went into his lap, but his hands didn't yank. For all practical purposes he had done a chin-up on someone's outstretched hands across a table, and only Ed Polishuk's shoulders moved. They moved with great strain. He had wrenched them.

“Who are you?” asked Captain Polishuk.

“Ed. We were on the same beat. Remember? We walked. Foot patrolmen. You always called me 'Straighto Dum Dum.'”

“I called a lot of guys 'Straighto Dum Dum,'” said Polishuk.

“Yeah, but remember the psych tests everyone was taking and I scored a 'compulsive patriot' or something? Remember that? You said you would have thought Dum Dum would have been the best in the country. I wouldn't even take a free pack of cigarettes.”

Ed Polishuk looked at the guy in front of him. There was something about the face he remembered. The dark eyes and high cheekbones reminded him of someone. But the rest of the face was that of a stranger.

“I think I remember you. I think I do.”

“Remo. Remo Williams.”

“Right. Yeah. I think. Right. Remo.” And then Ed Polishuk jumped back in his seat.

“Remo, you're dead,” he said. “And what happened to your face? You got a different kind of a nose and mouth. You're dead, Remo. No, you're not dead. You're not Remo.”

“Remember the newsstand you tried to shake down for cigarettes and I threatened to report you, Ed?”

“The dumb-dumbest straighto. Remo. Remo Williams,” yelled Polishuk. And everyone in the bar and grill turned to look. Ed Polishuk hushed his voice.

“What the hell has happened to you, Remo?”

“I don't know. Crazy things. I see this old Oriental in front of me. I speak Korean fluently. I can do things with my body like you wouldn't believe. And you, Ed, you're twenty years older.”

“And you're not. That's the strange part.”

“I know.”

“Remo,” whispered Polishuk, “you died about twenty years ago.”

Remo let go of Polishuk's wrists. He pinched his own arm. He felt it. He knew even more certainly in his breath that he was alive.

“I'm not dead, Ed.”

“I can see that. I see that. Something's going on here.”

“What?”

“I don't know, Remo. I don't know. I remember they electrocuted you. You shot some punk. I thought: Serves him right for being such a straighto. It doesn't pay to be straight, Remo. You never learned that lesson.”

“I don't know what I learned. Have you ever heard of Sinanju?”

“No. But let's get out of here. Hey, you lost weight. And you look younger. You look friggin' younger. How did you do it?”