Warren Murphy: Fade to Black

"Everything's negotiable," the defeated Bindle stated.

"Whatever you say," agreed the dejected Marmelstein.

"I have heard a rumor that a film starring the foulmouthed jester Edward Murphy was said to have lost money. This in spite of domestic grosses exceeding one hundred miilion dollars and a production cost much lower than this," said Chiun the Insightful, who had studied the habits of these Hollywood cretins and was aware of the sly manipulations they were known to make on paper. "This so that the makers of the film did not have to pay the writer."

"A lie," Bindle insisted.

"A mistruth," Marmelstein interjected.

"And if it was true, we would never do that to you," Bindle stressed.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Marmelstein agreed.

"That would be prudent." The Master of Sinanju nodded sagely. "For if I were to ever learn again that you have attempted to cheat me, I would be forced to deal with you thusly."

And in demonstration, the Master of Sinanju did raise a single fearsome fingernail.

The Master did draw this lone Knife of Eternity along the center of Bruce Marmelstein's heavy desk. He expended no effort and when he was finished, a single sharp line-more precise than any manufactured edge could produce-bisected the gleaming piece of mahogany furniture. As Bindle and Marmelstein watched in fear, the Master did slap both hands flat on either side of the line. In the wake of the thunderous clap, the desk did separate in twain, dropping open like the petals of a blooming flower. The rumble of the crashing fragments shook the fortress to its very foundation.

When the Master turned back to face the magicians, he did detect a scent displeasing to him emanating from the lower garments of the wizards. They spoke in haste to him.

"You'll get everything you want," the sorcerer Bindle gasped.

"I'll personally guarantee it," Marmelstein the Magician agreed quickly. His eyes were filled with terror.

"The new contracts will be ready for you to sign in an hour," Bindle insisted.

"Half an hour," Marmelstein said rapidly. "We'll courier them to your hotel."

"That reminds me," the Master said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I wish you to pay my hotel expenses, as well."

"Done," agreed Bindle.

"I'll call the limo," said Marmelstein. Pulling at his trousers, the magician went off to summon the coachman who would take the Master to his lodgings.

"I'll get the ball rolling with legal," Bindle said, heading for his telephone.

"I will wait outside," said Master Chiun, the brilliant negotiator, for the odor in the inner sanctum of the titans of Taurus was more than he could bear. He left the conjurer Bindle to talk to legal.

Thus did the Master of Sinanju, in the earliest days of what Western calendars inaccurately deemed the twenty-first century (see Pope Gregory XIII: Calendars, Carpenters and the Confusion They've Wrought), arrive in and conquer the province of Hollywood.

Chapter 1

On the evening of his murder, Walter Anderson steered his Ford Explorer up his driveway at the usual time. A hint of the summer Walter would never see wafted through the open driver's side window, carried on eddies of warm spring air.

Commuting through Washington that morning, Walter had been surprised to see that the cherry blossoms were just beginning to peek from their buds. Since he hadn't noticed them on Friday, they had to have started coming out over the weekend. No matter how lousy his mood, the sight of those tiny pink buds always made him feel a little better.

Walter drew slowly up the slight blacktopped incline from Clark Street in suburban Maryland, stopping his truck tight behind his teenage son's red Camaro. He cut the engine.

Walter paused for a moment, staring at the closed garage door beyond Mike's sports car. The weak 1950s-style overhead bulb that hung next to the frayed, unused basketball net threw amber shadows across the weathered beige garage door.

He was late again.

Penny would be mad at him. Again. But that seemed to be a given lately. This just happened to be one of the busiest times of year for the construction firm he owned. What did she expect him to do-sell the business? The whole argument was stupid and was always the same. But Walter never heard her complain about the money. Oh, no. Sometimes he'd point this out, but it only provoked more yelling. Tonight he just wasn't in the mood.

Walter let out a sigh that reeked of his threepack-a-day Marlboro habit and climbed wearily from his truck.

The flagstone path had been installed in the 1960s and was showing definite signs of age. Walter noted dozens of cracked stones between the slowly disintegrating mortar as he trudged toward the front door.

She'd been on him to fix the walk for at least five years. "You build buildings, for Christ's sake, Walter," Penny berated him with clockwork frequency. "With dozens of men working for you, you can't spare one mason to patch the goddamn walk?"

Heading for the front door for what would be the last time, Walter decided to fix the walk. Just like that. Walter Anderson-a man who hadn't gotten his hands dirty in construction for more than a decade-would go to the hardware store and get a couple of bags of concrete mix. He would personally rip up and redo the walk this weekend.

A spark inside him wanted to be nice. To do something decent for the mother of Mike and little Alice. But mostly he was just tired of hearing her nag. He wouldn't get one of his guys to do it. He'd do it himself.

She'd probably find a reason to complain about that, too. They'd look destitute in the eyes of the neighbors if he did the work himself. They weren't paupers, after all.

He didn't care. His next weekend's plans already set at nine o'clock Monday night, Walter happily slipped his house key from the others on the ring in his hand and brought it up to the lock on his front door.

At just the slightest pressure, the door popped open.

"Damn kids," Walter muttered as he pushed the door open all the way. "Least it's not January." He took one step across the threshold-his hand still on the brass knob-when he felt a sudden blinding pain shoot through the side of his head. He reeled in place.

The living room was swept in dark maroon shadows. Penny was there. So were the kids, Alice and Mike. On the couch. Gray electrical tape across their mouths. Eyes pleading. Hands and feet bound tightly together.

The pain again. Powerful. Overwhelming. A second to realize he'd been attacked.

He lunged at his assailant. Or wanted to. But something had changed. Penny and the two kids were lower now. On his level. Terrified.

No. He was on their level.

He had fallen. Hands reached up to ward off the next blow. Something struck his fingers, slamming them against his own skull. A shotgun butt.

Fresh pain. Fingers, broken.

Blood on his fingers. His own blood from the gaping wound in the side of his head.

The room was spinning. Ceiling whirling high above him. Cracked plaster. He'd promised to fix that, too.

This weekend. Along with the walk. Hell, he'd even clean the garage. Everything this weekend. If only he could live. If only God would spare his beautiful wife and precious, precious children.

The room, and the world around it, was collapsing into a brilliant hot flash of light. Coalescing into a pinprick explosion. Flickering once, then vanishing forever.

One final blow to the head, and Walter Anderson collapsed in a bloody heap to the floor, never to move again. The front door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the view of the cracked flagstone walk, the repairs of which would now be left to the new, future owners of the Anderson house.

"GET THOSE DAMN CAMERAS out of here!" Lieutenant Frederick Jonston had yelled that three times already, growing angrier each time. No one seemed to want to listen tonight.