Warren Murphy: The Final Reel

When they came to another stop and Remo had twisted the handle once more, the mayor found himself looking at a cluster of teenagers.

They all had the wasted mien of the habitual drug user. The oldest couldn't have been more than fifteen, the youngest around twelve. Before them stood a man of about twenty, a haggard figure in scraggly goatee and faded denim. He was reaching into a mobile hot-dog wagon that he'd dragged to the Common. Instead of foot-longs, he was withdrawing plastic bags half-filled with marijuana. Greedy teenage hands passed cash for drugs.

"This is what we grown-ups like to call a drug deal," Remo said patiently. "It used to be that this sort of thing was conducted in secret. Thanks to you, it's going on in front of national television cameras."

Although the mayor could never have been characterized as the brightest bulb on the circuit, even he was beginning to see the direction in which his kidnapper was heading.

"They do have a permit," the mayor pointed out. The by-now-familiar tug of the pot handle dragged the mayor forward once more. He couldn't help but trail Remo to their next destination. A few moments later he found himself looking down with one weary eye across a table that was filled with all manner of drug paraphernalia.

Keeping with the main theme of the rally, there were joints, dime bags, bongs and roaches, but in addition to these there were also indications of harder drugs. Crack vials, needles and unmarked prescription bottles filled with various pills, powders and liquids covered the vendor's table. A big cardboard box sat on the grass near the booth.

"This is a de facto legal illicit-drug store," Remo said to the mayor. "Your policy has made this permissible."

With suspicious, bloodshot eyes the reed-thin peddler behind the counter examined the man with the pot on his head, as well as his companion.

"You dudes buyin' anything?" the salesman drawled.

"If you have a problem with how the Liberty Rally issue is being handled," the mayor said to Remo, "you're welcome to take it up with the city council."

Remo's hard knuckles rapped the outside of the mayor's kettle. The clanging rattled the mayor's fillings.

"You're missing the point of good-mayor school," Remo admonished. "Final-exam time. What have you seen tonight?"

"Uh...um...oh..,"

It was apparent as the one visible eye struggled with the question that they might be there all night before the mayor figured it out. Remo's own eyes rolled heavenward.

"That there's plenty illegal going on here to disband this silly rally once and for all," Remo said, exasperated.

"But the permit-" The mayor hesitated.

"Does not entitle its bearers to engage in illegal activities," Remo completed.

"Okay, if I do something-and that's still a big if, mind you-will you get this thing off my head?"

"Liquid soap," Remo replied. "Ears will ache for a week or so, but it should slip off after an hour of wiggling."

The eye grew crafty. With the answer already given, it was clear he intended to revert to the "don't upset the applecart" methods he'd used regarding most illegal activity throughout his tenure as Boston's mayor.

"Look," Remo said, "put it this way. Either you let the cops come in and put a stop to this nonsense, or I promise you the next pot I plant on your head isn't coming off even if you take a blowtorch to it. You'll be running for reelection on the Farberware ticket."

The eye shot open. "Well, why don't I just go see if I can find a policeman right now?" the mayor offered anxiously.

"By George, I think you've got it," Remo said. He gave the mayor a friendly pat on the kettle and nudged him out into the crowd. Handle aimed forward, the mayor stumbled through the multitude of druggies. A man with a mission.

Satisfied with a job well done, Remo turned to go. At the nearby booth another man had joined the first. The new arrival was better dressed, although in the sense of an upwardly mobile hood. He was probably some sort of supplier.

The vendor was whispering to his companion and pointing to Remo. When he saw Remo looking their way, the vendor grew concerned. Sick eyes strayed to the cardboard box Remo had seen earlier. By the look on the vendor's face, he was more concerned with the box than he was with the array of drugs spread out before him.

"What's in the box?" Remo asked, curious. Both men appeared shocked to be addressed. The vendor in particular grew panicked.

"Nothing!" he snapped.

The intensity of his response indicated that such was not the case. Remo approached the box. He had to push the vendor's desperate hands aside before he could pull it open.

He discovered a case filled with videocassettes. Frowning, he pulled one loose.

"You got a warrant?" the vendor shrieked.

"Star Wars?" Remo asked. His face scrunched up in confusion as he read the subtitle. "Isn't this playing now?"

He felt the muzzle of a gun press his ribs. When he turned, he found the better-dressed thug standing beside him.

"Put it down and get lost," the man menaced. Remo kept the tape in one hand. With the other he grabbed the barrel of the man's gun.

The gun swung up in a perfect, fluid arc. It met the spot directly between its owner's eyes with a satisfying crack, continuing deep into the man's brain.

As the dead man collapsed to the ground, Remo's confused expression didn't waver.

"Isn't this playing now?" he repeated. The vendor gulped. He nodded dumbly. "Thought so," Remo nodded smugly.

Tape in hand, he turned away from vendor and corpse.

ON HIS WAY OFF THE Common, Remo met the mayor once more.

Three grimy hoods had grabbed hold of His Honor and were spinning him around. Because of the kettle, the portly politician couldn't see them clearly. As he stumbled, the trio laughed uproariously.

"What's going on?" the mayor shouted fearfully. All at once there came a sharp tugging sensation at his legs. He felt himself being pushed to the ground. Once on his back, he distinctly heard the sound of a fly opening. An instant later his tubby legs got suddenly very cold.

"They're called junkies, Mr. Mayor," Remo called. His voice sounded faraway. "They steal in order to feed their habit. Right now they're stealing your pants."

"Stop them!" the mayor cried.

"Can't," Remo said. "Until you get back to city hall, it's technically still legal. Sorry."

Flat on his back in the damp grass, the mayor blinked his one visible eye in panic. As the mayor of Boston rolled and shivered in his pink boxer shorts, Remo Williams left the Common, a cheerful smile plastered across his face.

Nothing, but nothing, could shake his happy mood.

Chapter 3

When Remo arrived back home at the condominium complex he shared with the Master of Sinanju, he found every light in the building turned on.

He mounted the stairs two at a time, pushing into the foyer. As he walked down the hallway to the kitchen, Remo leaned into rooms and flicked off light switches. He assumed that Chiun was in a good mood, hence the compulsion to use up half the electricity on the East Coast.

On the kitchen counter near the fridge Remo deposited a sack of rice he'd picked up from the corner market. Beside it he dropped the illegal videotape. He was stooping to collect a pot from a lower cupboard when the Master of Sinanju padded into the kitchen.

Chiun's face clouded briefly as he looked at the items Remo had left on the counter. His eyes lingered particularly over the pirated videotape. After a moment's inspection the shadow passed from his wizened features and was replaced by a look of beatific contentment.

"I have made great progress on my screenplay while you were away," Chiun said pleasantly.

"Good for you," Remo said, feigning interest. He was in too good a mood to fight. "You know where there's another three-quart kettle around here?"