Warren Murphy: The Final Reel

Even before he had driven up to the front gate, Remo could smell the powerful aroma of mustard and barley wafting over the wall. He was surprised to see dozens of men in long white robes wandering in and out of the small pedestrian gate beside the guard shack.

Remo drove his rented car up to the small speed bump at the main vehicle entrance. A red-faced guard in his late fifties leaned out of the shack.

"Name and business," he said in a bored voice. Remo showed the guard a badge that identified him as Remo Gates, a lieutenant with the LAPD. The guard studied the ID for a moment. "Is there a problem, Officer?" he asked, handing the laminated card back.

"We got a call downtown that someone was molesting a camel," Remo answered, matching the guard's uninterested tone.

The guard glanced at some of the men wandering back and forth on the other side of the shack. They looked like extras from Lawrence of Arabia.

"I'm not surprised," the older man said with a disapproving grunt.

He raised the gate, allowing Remo inside.

Remo parked his car in the first visitor's space he found. Leaving the vehicle, he wandered on foot into the spacious studio lots.

He soon learned why the guard had been so willing to accept his story. A long line of shaggy brown camels turned dull eyes on him as he walked up the palm-bordered sidewalk to the main office building. The animals were tethered by long ropes to otherwise empty bicycle racks that were bolted to the pavement.

Farther away-unseen by Remo-he could hear the distinct sounds of horses whinnying. The scent in the air told him that there were at least as many horses as camels.

The lot in front of the Taurus executive office building looked like an unlikely village for lost bedouin. Men decked out in full Arab garb squatted next to fires set in metal wastebaskets. They were cooking and eating and shouting to one another in a tongue Remo did not recognize.

There were camels here, as well. The large animals were scattered among the milling crowd, chewing languidly and spitting frequently. Remo dodged a sloppy dollop of camel saliva as he stepped through the front door of the three-story office building.

There was a commotion going on at the main reception area. A group of four Arabs was fanned out before the desk of the perky young receptionist. One of them muttered something in the same language Remo had heard outside. It was obviously an obscene comment, for the other three laughed among themselves, leering at the girl as they did so.

The woman had no place to go. She was visibly nervous, but seemed somewhat accustomed to the abuse. She was clearly unprepared for what came next. As the door swung silently behind Remo, one of the burly men reached out and grabbed a firm white breast.

The woman screamed.

Her reaction seemed to provoke them even more. The four men pushed toward her, teeth bared, faces filled with lascivious glee. Her chair clunked against the wallboard behind her as she wheeled as far back as she could. It would never be far enough. As she screamed and cringed in horrible anticipation, a voice suddenly cut in from across the large airconditioned foyer.

"Excuse me, fellas," Remo said from behind the panting men.

He was pointing to their headgear as the men turned around. Their flushed faces were not pleased. "Studio security. Did you steal those towels from the commissary men's room?" Remo asked seriously.

As the burly men parted, the receptionist looked hopefully between them to the voice that was her salvation. When she saw that Remo was alone, her face fell.

"You are not with studio," one of the men demanded in choppy English when he saw no uniform on the intruder.

"Shh. I'm undercover," Remo whispered, a finger to his lips. "And it looks like you are, too. You stole those bedsheets from props, didn't you?"

Two of the men reached below their robes. When their hands reemerged, they were clutching long, curved daggers. The looks of sexual passion they had worn a moment before had given way to expressions of violent glee.

The quartet advanced on Remo.

Remo didn't really want to cause a scene. At least not before he found Assola al Khobar.

As the men closed in, Remo singled out the biggest of them. He was a towering, six-foot-seven-inch brute with a dark, leathery face that looked as if it had seen a thousand desert sandstorms. This man had no knife. His large hands-each as big as a catcher's mitt were held out as if to strangle Remo.

The pecking order was clear enough. The lumbering giant was the leader. As Remo expected, the others fell back as the big man lunged forward.

Remo leaned away from the grabbing arms of the man. As the grasping hands found only empty air where a neck had been an instant before, Remo was already moving in past the extended right arm.

Behind the big man now, his hands flashed up, whipping the headdress down from atop the man's head. It slipped perfectly down around his throat. Tug, twist.

The Arab was trying to get his bearings. Remo was no longer in front of him. And there was a sudden, terrible pressure at his throat. The man's eyes bugged open as he realized what had happened. As he struggled to remove the strangling cloth from around his neck, the other men dived forward to assist.

Remo dodged the other three, spinning the big man in place, to use the bulk of the large body as a barrier between himself and the three other Arabs. He bounced them away with his living shield.

"Remo no play now," Remo called apologetically from behind the meaty mountain of Arab. "He very busy."

The giant gulped at empty air. Quivering fingers tore at the cloth, to no avail. Failing to loose the cloth, he reached back over his shoulders for Remo, grabbing at anything. Everywhere his hands snatched, Remo was not.

The Arab's leathery face went white, then blue. When the last of the oxygen in the huge man's lungs finally gave out, he slumped forward. Remo dropped the body to the floor.

"That's what you get when you mess with studio security."

With a sudden clear shot at Remo, the others hesitated.

They looked at the unconscious body of their comrade.

They looked back up at the thin white American smiling placidly at them.

And they reached the same conclusion at the same time.

The three men ran from the reception area as if it were on fire. Their frantically flapping robes looked like the bedroom laundry left out in a monsoon. The doors swung shut on the white California sunlight.

Remo stepped over the sleeping giant and up to the reception desk.

The receptionist had pushed her chair back to her accustomed spot behind the desk. The young woman took a deep breath, patting down her perfect blond hair as she did so.

"You okay?" Remo asked, concerned.

She shook her head, startled by the question. "What, that?" she asked. "Oh, I'm fine. I'm used to aggressive men." She finished fussing with her hair. "After all I've worked here for two years. These friends of the new owner are just a touch more aggressive than, say, your average action-film star."

"Aggressive?" Remo asked, astonished. "Where I come from that'd be considered attempted rape."

The woman winced. "That's a strong word. Don't you remember the claims of anti-Arabism when True Lies came out? I don't want to be accused of negative stereotyping."

"What, assault isn't assault unless it comes from a white European male?" Remo said in disbelief.

"That's right," she replied simply. There wasn't a hint of irony in her voice.

She had finally gathered her wits about her. After another deep, cleansing breath she turned her attention to the man who had saved her from certain physical violence.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Remo said uncertainly.

"Perfectly," she insisted with an efficient smile.