Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

"He's gone to Napa Valley. Doesn't want to be disturbed. Doesn't need us. The election's in the bag."

"You sound drunk," Remo said suspiciously.

"I feel great," Harmon shot back.

After a minute they went away, and Harmon returned to building a cone of white creme filling on the breakfast nook table. He wondered if he should save some to sweeten his coffee. Regular sugar just didn't have the kick it used to.

After some thought, he decided to add a splash of coffee to the pile of creme filling. Coffee had lost its luster, too.

By three o'clock Harmon was feeling so confident of his prospects, he decided to share it with a certain someone. He put in a long distance call to Washington, D.C.

The President of the United States, after some thought, decided to take the call from his old campaign aide.

"Harmon, my boy! How're you doing?"

"Great, jus' great," Harmon Cashman said slurringly.

"Are you all right?"

"I am great. Jus' great. And after next week I'm gonna be greater. Gonna be on top of the world."

"Happy to hear it," said the President. "After that little chief of staff flap, we kinda fell off one another's Christmas card list. I was afraid you had hard feelings."

"Well, I do. And I'm gonna pay you back. As soon as we're in office."

"Harmon, do you know what you're saying, fella?"

"I'm saying I know your dirty lil' secret."

There was silence on the line to Washington.

Harmon began shouting, "I know about the lil' Korean! Well, he's our Korean now! That's right, Mr. Commander-in-Chief! The greatest assassin that ever was doesn't work for you anymore! He works for us!"

The President's voice became chilly. "Us?"

"Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, alias Ricky the Spic."

The President cleared his throat. In a tight voice he said, "I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about. I'm sorry to hear that you're in such an agitated state, Harmon. I must go. Staff meeting. You understand. Good-bye."

"It's adios, now!" Harmon Cashman shouted into the dead line. "Better work on your tan, White Bread! Multicultural Fever is just starting in California, but it's gonna roll east real soon! Real soon!"

After Harmon Cashman had slammed down the phone, he stood up. He was full of coffee and Oreos. He felt it necessary to release some biological ballast.

Harmon never made it to the bathroom. His overburdened stomach rebelled, and he vomited an unholy blackish bile all over his shoes, his clothes, and the floor.

And most importantly, all over his last box of cookies.

"No problem," Harmon said groggily, after he had emptied his stomach and rinsed out his mouth. "I'll just go buy some more."

There was a Japanese convenience store on the next block.

"What do you mean you sold out!" Harmon said, aghast, upon finding the cookie shelves bare of Oreos.

"Sold out. People buy. Much demand."

Harmon hurried to the next store. They were also sold out. It was unbelievable. There wasn't a solitary box of Oreos to be found in all of Hollywood.

"What's this damn country coming to?" he said, as he walked, sweaty-faced, back to the hotel. His hands shook. Cold, clammy perspiration trickled down the gully of his back. It was a very warm day.

As he crossed Melrose to the hotel, a red convertible came screeching around a corner.

Harmon barely noticed it. Not even when an Uzi was poked out of the backseat and began spraying bullets in his direction.

A stitching of lead caught him in the legs. Harmon Cashman went down. He screamed.

"God! Doesn't anyone have any Oreos?" he cried, as the convertible screamed away and a frightened crowd gathered around him.

Remo and Chiun found the surgeon who had removed four bullets from Harmon Cashman's legs on the twelfth floor of Cedars Sinai.

"He'll live," the surgeon told them. "But he'll need long-term rehabilitation."

"Will he walk again?" Remo asked.

"Of course. That is not what I meant. That man is suffering from a serious cocaine addiction."

Behind the doctor, through the closed door of Harmon Cashman's hospital room, a shrill voice cried, "Take this slop away! I want my Oreos!"

"As you can hear," the surgeon said quietly, "he is suffering from a cocaine-induced psychosis. Regression to childhood. It happens."

As they left the hospital Chiun said, "The cowardly attacks have resumed. Our place is with our patron."

"No argument there," said Remo.

Outside, Chiun paused. He looked up and down the street expectantly. Then, his face wrinkling in disappointment, he continued toward their waiting car.

"Looking for someone?" Remo asked, as he held open the car door for the Master of Sinanju.

"Yes. Cheeta. She is always the first to arrive when there is news. I wonder why she has not?"

"Search me."

Chiun gathered his bright skirts about him and slipped in. "It is too early for her to be burdened with your child," he said thoughtfully.

"Way, way too early," Remo agreed, slamming the door.

Chapter 30

Harold W. Smith looked at the clock. It was after six in the evening. The day had been quiet. It was almost time to go home. The setting sun was painting Long Island Sound-visible through the picture window at his back-a gorgeous vermilion, a color the newspaper attributed to the eruption of a Philippines volcano.

Smith pressed the concealed stud that returned the CURE terminal to its desktop reservoir.

Getting up on creaky knees, he prepared to go home. His gray eyes rested on the closed desk drawer. It had been many weeks now. Smith had not been tempted to ingest Maalox, imbibe Alka-Seltzer, or resort to a single aspirin.

Perhaps, he thought, it's time to empty that drawer of its freight of pharmaceuticals.

Smith brought a green metal wastebasket around to the back of the desk and opened the drawer. One by one, he removed and dropped various bottles and cans into the basket. The last to go was a tiny canister of foam antacid he'd never gotten the hang of using.

It clanked into the basket, and Smith kneed the drawer closed.

He was on his way to the wooden clothes tree where his briefcase sat when the red telephone rang.

Smith returned to his desk with all the speed his old bones could muster. He caught the call at the third ring.

"Yes, Mr. President?" he said.

The President's voice was a flat, dry croak. "Smith."

"Is there something the matter?"

"I have just received a call from Harmon Cashman, my former campaign aide," the President said in a strange voice.

"Now handling the Esperanza campaign."

"The man sounded positively high, Smith. He was babbling. I never knew he held such a grudge over losing the Chief of Staff job, but-"

"Yes?" Smith prompted.

"He threatened me, Smith. Actually threatened to expose what he called my 'dirty little secret.' "

Smith, getting a premonition, quickly took to his swivel chair. This was something he wanted to be seated for.

"I am listening, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, his voice cracking.

"Smith, he said he controls the greatest assassin in history. He called him 'our little Korean.' "

"My God!" said Smith.

"Could your people have been seduced by-"

Smith cut in sharply, "Impossible, Mr. President!"

"But-"

"Did Cashman mention CURE?"

"Well, no."

"Then organizational security remains uncompromised."

"Still, Cashman knows too much."

"I agree," said Smith.

"And likely Esperanza, too," added the President.

"It is possible," Smith said guardedly.

The President's tone sank to a hushed whisper. "Smith, right now Esperanza looks like he's gonna make it. That might not be a good thing for us. If you catch my drift."

Smith swallowed uncomfortably. His tie suddenly felt too tight, his skull too small to contain his brain.