Warren Murphy: Walking Wounded

Then Remo felt Chiun's hand clamp over his mouth. Copra Inisfree was back. She launched into an interview with a young couple who told in heart-rending details about selling their two-year-old girl for a complete set of The Amazing Spider Man, only to change their minds when they discovered the fifth issue had a missing page. They spoke tearfully of their protracted legal battle to recover their precious baby. When they were done, the audience sobbed uncontrollably. Copra Inisfree blubbered until her mascara, which looked as if it'd been applied with a lump of coal, streaked her full cheeks.

When the next commercial break came, Remo felt Chiun's hand withdraw suddenly. "I don't think I can take the next segment," Remo said, getting up.

But Chiun did not answer. There were tears running down his cheeks too.

"Oh, brother," Remo said. "I'll see you later."

"Monday it will be interviews with abandoned pets whose masters are missing in Vietnam. Do you think Smith will let us stay here another few days so that I may see that program?"

"I doubt it. But I'll ask him."

"Be convincing."

"Why? I don't care about this nonsense."

"You were in Vietnam, were you not? Do you not care about your missing Army friends?"

"I was a Marine. And Vietnam was a long time ago," Remo said coldly as he walked out the door.

Chapter 3

Copra Inisfree sweltered. The blazing tropical sun seemed only inches from her wide face. It leached precious fluids from deep within her and brought them to the surface as sweat. The sweat dried almost instantly so that vapor drifted off her body in whirling billows. She felt like a steamed ham.

"I don't think I can take any more of this heat, Sam," she complained. "Find me a rickshaw. Hurry."

"This is Thailand, not Hong Kong," said Sam Spelvin, producer of The Copra Inisfree Show. "They don't have rickshaws here. "

"Then get me a litter or something. Anything. I don't think I can go another step."

Sam Spelvin turned. He stared up the wheeled stairway. Copra Inisfree teetered on the top step. "Copra baby, you haven't even left the plane yet."

"But look at these steps," moaned Copra, clutching the edges of the passenger jet's door for support. "I don't do steps. Don't they have Jetway ramps out here?"

"We're lucky they have an airport. Now, come on, you can do it. Look at me. I'm halfway down with all your luggage."

"What happens if I fall?"

Sam Spelvin wanted to say, "You'll bounce, you ball of blubber," but thought better of it. What he did say was, "I'll catch you, sweets."

"Promise?"

"Absolutely." And as Copra started lumbering down the steps, he prepared to jump out of the way. Just in case her high heels buckled like they did in Paris.

But Copra Inisfree made it to the bottom step without incident. A native taxi was waiting for them. "Thank goodness," Copra said, collapsing into the back of the open vehicle like a deflating bladder. The car sank on its chassis so far that, once Sam Spelvin squeezed into the front and they got going, the fenders struck sparks off the tarmac.

"Okay," said Sam when they were in traffic. "Here's our itinerary. We're going to the Sakeo relocation camp right away. They're not expecting us until after we check into the hotel. If we hit them early, they won't have time to mount the usual dog-and-pony show. We should get a better guest selection this way."

"Sounds great," Copra said, waving air in her face. "What are we looking for again? I forget."

"The camp is full of Vietnamese refugees who want to come to America. Some of them have been there for years, waiting for sponsors."

"Sponsors! Like the panty-hose people?"

"No, like someone who'll pay their passage to the States, take them in, and help them get started on a new life."

Copra frowned. Even the cleft in her chin frowned. "Sounds like work," she said. "Why would anyone want to help people they don't even know?"

"Charity."

"Charity is giving money to the poor. Last year I gave twenty thousand dollars to charity," she said proudly.

"You grossed five million smackers last year. You can afford it. Ordinary people can't do that."

"Don't tell me about ordinary people. I deal with them every day, like last week's show on people who believe the same assassin killed Marilyn Monroe and Elvis."

"Some people would argue that the people who guest on your show aren't prime examples of ordinariness."

"If they're not, why are there so many of them?"

"Good point," said Sam. "You know, I was thinking of sponsoring one of these Vietnamese kids myself. They make good domestics."

Copra perked up. "Do they do windows?"

"We can ask," said Sam as the taxi carried them to the wire gates of the relocation camp.

"Look how thin they are," Copra said as she saw the emaciated look of the people watching her from behind the wire. "While we're here, let's ask about diets. Maybe they know some Vietnamese diet secrets."

"They do. It's called starvation."

"I don't think I could handle that. I've got a six-month supply of prime ribs in my basement freezer. If I starved myself, it would all spoil."

"No pain, no gain," said Sam, helping Copra heave herself out of the cab. Actually, he just touched Copra's fat-sheathed elbow and planned to dodge out of the way if she stumbled. The last Copra Inisfree producer had been on a studio elevator when Copra had stepped on-all 334 pounds of her-and the cable snapped. Fortunately for Copra, the elevator fell only one flight to the basement. Unfortunately for the producer, Copra fell on him. Three spinal-fusion operations later, he was getting around with a walker and considering himself lucky.

"You know," Copra mused as they walked through the compound gates, "I'll bet some of these people had to resort to cannibalism to get here. Wouldn't that make a great show? People who ate their relatives to reach America. Let's be sure to ask that question."

"Better hurry," Sam suggested. "Once our government contact finds out we've arrived, it'll be the screened tour. "

And like a bull-dozing Zeppelin, Copra Inisfree waded into the crowd. She shook like a Jell-O sculpture in an earthquake.

"You, sir," she bellowed at a middle-aged man. "How did you get out of Vietnam?"

"I walk," the man said.

"And what did you eat to get here?"

"Bugs. "

"Good, go stand over there. You, madam. Speak English?"

"A little."

"You're doing fine, honey. What did you eat?"

"Grass. Weeds."

"Okay," Copra shouted. "Listen up, people. Grasseaters stand off to my left. Bug-eaters to the right. Maybe we can get through this fast."

Hesitantly the Vietnamese milled about until there were two groups, segregated by diet. They smiled in embarrassment.

Copra looked around. There were still some people not on either side. They looked at her in bewilderment. "You, son," Copra asked a little boy. "What did you eat in Vietnam?"

"Sometimes I eat dog."

"Dog's no good. I don't think our audience would go for that. Besides, we just did a dog-confession show. People who take their dogs to church. Sorry, kid. Next time."

"I don't know, Copra," Sam offered. "I think we can squeeze a show out of dog-eating. We can tape and run it on a delayed basis."

"Good thinking. Hold everything, people," Copra yelled. "Change of plan. Dog-eaters go stand by that tree over there."

Everybody went to stand by the tree, including the grass- and bug-eaters.

"Dog-eating must be popular out here," Copra said with disgust.

"Don't let it throw you, Copra baby. Ask 'em about people."

"Right. Now, can I have your attention again? Did any of you ever eat a person, a fellow human being? It doesn't matter who. It can be a brother or parent or child. Come on, don't be shy. Anyone who ever munched out on the relative? No relatives? How about strangers? Anyone ever eat someone they didn't know?" asked Copra Inisfree, thinking that a show called "Strangers Who Eat Strangers" would fetch an easy thirty share in the ratings.