Warren Murphy: Fade to Black

Wordlessly, Smith removed his rimless glasses. Tired fingers massaged the bridge of his patrician nose. "Remo, CURE does not exist to alleviate your ennui. Frankly, I have been a little concerned by your attitude of late. Ever since your encounter with Elizu Roote in New Mexico-"

Remo's tone hardened. "You don't have to bring that up."

During his last assignment a few months before, Remo had encountered a man unlike any he had ever met in all his years as CURE's enforcement arm. Surgically enhanced with biomechanical implants, Elizu Roote had offered unexpected resistance. And nearly killed Remo.

"I believe I do," Smith pressed. "Twice in the past six months, your abilities have been put to the test by abnormally dangerous foes. Most recently Roote, and before him, Judith White. I have noticed a creeping apathy in your attitude since then, which I believe is a direct result of these experiences."

"Apathy schmapathy," Remo grumbled. "Maybe I've just learned not to sweat the small stuff. Life goes on, Smitty."

Smith replaced his glasses. His gray eyes were level. "It does," he said, tart voice even. "For some."

Remo sighed. "Okay, okay, I'm in. So these crummy movies hadn't been released yet when these things happened?" he asked, his tone anything but enthusiastic.

"No."

"Could still be a copycat. Some screwball's getting into sneak previews and then getting his rocks off staging the scenes before the movies are out."

"That is a possible scenario. Also, there is much information contained in studio press kits-promotional material mailed to critics before the films come out. It is also possible that prints of the films are being stolen before they are released for general distribution. The movie company is claiming that any of these scenarios is a plausible explanation."

"Wait a minute, Smitty," Remo said, a sliver of concern in his voice. "Studio? All of this shit's being shoveled by one company?"

His thoughts turned to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju was in Hollywood right now working on his top secret film. Before he'd left, Chiun made Remo promise he wouldn't breathe a word to Smith about his film.

Remo had seen the bozos who ran the studio that was making the Master of Sinanju's movie. The stuff Smith had described was so appalling that it could be right up Bindle and Marmelstein's alley. For a sudden tense moment, he held his breath. Smith was nodding. "The studio responsible is called Cabbagehead Productions," the CURE director said.

Remo exhaled silent relief. Not Taurus Studios. "Okay, this seems pretty cut-and-dry to me. Nimrods make lousy movies, kill people to boost ticket sales." Remo nodded. "And at this point, by the way, I think we should all breathe a sigh of relief that this never occurred to Chevy Chase."

Smith had already stood to go, collecting his briefcase from the floor. Remo rose to his feet, as well.

"If this is a for-profit venture, I want it stopped," the CURE director said.

"Can do." Remo nodded. "Just call me Remo Williams, Wrestler of the Mundane. Say, Smitty, this place isn't in Hollywood, is it?"

There was something in his tone that caught Smith's attention. It was almost guilty. "Cabbagehead Productions is a small independent company located in Seattle," Smith said slowly. "Why?"

"No real reason," Remo replied vaguely. "Bad memories from the last time I went to Hollywood."

Smith knew what he was referring to. Nodding understanding, he said, "Do you want me to set aside two tickets to Seattle?"

"Not necessary," Remo said quickly. "I can handle this one on my own." He ushered Smith to the front door.

It was tempting to let the potential headache slide. After all, Smith had had more than his share when dealing with the Master of Sinanju. But in the foyer, dread curiosity got the best of him. As Remo held the door open, Smith paused.

"Remo, is there something going on with Master Chiun that I should know about?"

The bland veneer of affected confusion on Remo's face faded to weary resignation. His shoulders sagged.

"Do you trust me, Smitty?" he asked tiredly. The question surprised the CURE director.

"I suppose," he said slowly. He was already regretting asking.

Remo locked eyes with Smith. "Then trust me now. You do not want to know."

The tone was somber, deadly serious. His expression could have been carved from stone.

For an instant, Smith opened his mouth, about to press the issue further. He thought better of it almost at once. Mouth creaking shut, he stepped out the door.

Remo clicked it shut behind him.

As he descended the steps to the sidewalk, the CURE director thought of times in the past when Remo had worn that same expression in regard to the Master of Sinanju. As he hurried down the sidewalk, Harold Smith decided that it might be prudent to stock up on Maalox and Alka-Seltzer on the way home. Just to be on the safe side.

Chapter 3

Shawn Allen Morris's resume boasted five years of "intimate experience at the frazzled edge of the film industry." In a forum where truth was always subjective, Shawn had raised the art of inflating one's personal experience on a resume to gargantuan proportions.

The implication was clear. He was claiming that, like many young men in Tinseltown, he'd spent years toiling on low-budget "indie" films. Even by resume standards, this was an utter lie. The truth was, the closest Shawn had ever come to the film industry was working on a canteen truck on a vacant tract of land near the Paramount lot.

The high point of that job had been the day John Rhys-Davies-Sallah from the Indiana Jones movies-had stopped by for a cheese danish.

When he had first arrived in Hollywood, Shawn spent his evenings attending film school. For 175 bucks per class per semester, he and his classmates would sit in the dark watching Ingmar Bergman movies and pretend to find meaning in them.

At night, he'd talk for hours with his fellow would-be auteurs. And though the arguments were loud and frequent, Shawn and his friends did have some common ground. They all agreed that they were intellectuals and visionaries while the rest of the world was comprised of nothing but Independence Day-watching troglodytes. When day came, these underappreciated geniuses would emerge bleary-eyed from their coffeehouses only to go back to their jobs parking the cars and busing the tables of the aforementioned troglodytes.

Shawn was no different than his classmates. His years of experience in night school left Shawn Allen Morris qualified for one thing: running a canteen truck.

Graduation came and went, and still, after five long years of school, each daybreak found Shawn wiping down the same cracked Formica counter with the same smelly rag and selling the same putrid egg-salad sandwiches to the same sweaty, hairy teamsters.

He would have languished there forever-his genius never recognized-had fate not finally dealt him a movie-inspired chance meeting.

Business had been slow that fateful afternoon. Shawn was about to close up shop when the fireengine-red Jaguar squealed to a desperate stop in the lot beside his ratty old canteen truck. A frenzied young man sprang out. Wild-eyed, he raced over to Shawn, who was in the process of collapsing the supports to the trapdoor above his counter.

"I need a blueberry bagel with cream cheese!" The customer's intent face was borderline frightening. His cheekbones were high and pointy, jutting out almost as far as his bizarrely elongated chin. His lower jaw extended out, as well, putting his lower teeth in front of his uppers. His face was contorted in a perpetual half grimace, half smirk.

At first, Shawn assumed the man was an actor in creature makeup for some bad sci-fi movie. It was only when he was smearing the cream cheese on the bagel that the customer removed his pair of heart-shaped red sunglasses. Shawn's mouth dropped open.