Warren Murphy: Sole Survivor

"Cat Harpy, Eyewatch News," she said into a microphone that seemed to jump into her hand like iron to a lodestone. "I'd like your story, sir. Channel 55 is doing a five-part feature on homelessness in America."

"I'm not homeless," Remo protested. "Then why are you dressed like that?"

Remo looked down at himself. "What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

"You look like a bum, you ... you impostor," the woman hissed.

"Hey, I always dress like this," Remo said. "What's your excuse?"

"I'm undercover, and you're wasting my time. The first part airs Monday and I've been here all week without one damned interview. Excuse me," she said huffily, brushing past Remo.

Remo stared at her retreating figure, shrugged, and kept walking.

Maybe there were no homeless in Washington, despite the news reports, Remo decided. He didn't know whether to feel good or bad about that. As long as he was stuck in America, he wanted to do some good before the year was up and he returned to Sinanju forever. He wanted to pay America back for the good things it had given him. Helping the homeless seemed like the best idea.

But there were no homeless in Rye, New York, where he was staying with his mentor, Chiun. Nor in any of the surrounding communities. He had tried New York City, but everyone in New York City had that frightened, hungry look, which made it impossible to tell the average citizen from the people the TV newscaster said had fallen through the cracks of modern American society. Remo had decided that it would be easier to tell the true homeless from the street people in Washington, and so he had come to the nation's capital.

It was no easier.

Remo's aimless walk brought him to the steps of the Capitol Building. A few minutes ago, when he had had an eagle view of the building, it had been deserted. Now the steps were covered with huddled, shivering forms. Men and women dressed in rags were taking turns holding up Zippo lighters while others tried to warm their hands against the tiny flames. A few munched on fast-food hamburgers.

A cordon of police ringed the clump of unhappy faces, truncheons at the ready, while passersby stopped to gape. Remo drifted between two cops as unnoticed as if he were a wisp of smoke from one of the flaring lighters.

He walked up to a man in his early forties hunkered and shivering in three layers of sweaters and jeans with holes in the knees. The man sat trying to cover his exposed kneecaps with gloved hands. At his feet lay a placard that read: HELP FOR THE HOMELESS NOW! Remo's heart went out to the man.

"Hey, buddy, don't you have a warm place to go?" Remo asked.

"Get lost," the man growled.

"Don't be that way," Remo said solicitously.

"Don't be a dip," the man shot back. Something in his voice sounded familiar, Remo thought. He looked closer.

Then Remo recognized him. He was a famous actor who had made his reputation in a film about the Vietnam war. Remo had not liked the film because it depicted a Vietnam as realistic as a Jell-O wrestling festival. The man had a son, also an actor, who had starred in a Vietnam war film of his own. Remo hadn't bothered seeing that film. Neither man had ever seen combat, and Remo, who had, resented the fact that both actors made big speeches about how close they felt to the footsoldiers of Nam after the horrendous rigors of slogging through a Philippine movie set, being shot at by other actors firing blanks.

"Aren't you-?" Remo asked.

"No autographs," the man said, his teeth chattering.

"I don't want your autograph," Remo said. "I want to help you out. I guess you've really hit the skids, buddy. I'm sorry to hear that. But what are you doing on the streets? Don't your kids care about you?"

"Sure they care. They're right behind me." The actor jerked a thumb at two smaller figures on the next step above.

Remo looked up. Dressed in tatters were two famous younger actors. Remo had read that they were both sons of the man in front, despite having completely different last names.

"We're protesting the government's cruel neglect of America's homeless population," the father said.

"By dressing up like them?" Remo asked.

"How else can we understand their plight except by experiencing life as they do?" the actor said, taking a pull out of a paper-bag wrapped bottle.

"You could donate money to a fund," Remo suggested.

"Money only helps the homeless of today. What about the homeless of tomorrow? And future generations? No, only political action will eradicate this horrible problem. We must shame America into taking action." The man's breath hit Remo like exhaust fumes. It smelled like a mixture of white wine and Pepsi-Cola.

"But if everyone gave to charity now, there might not be any homeless people in future generations," Remo said.

"Sure, just because I'm an actor and I gross seven figures every year, people think I should give it away to anyone who asks. I earned my money. Why should I share with those who didn't? You know, I nearly died filming Armageddon Yesterday. Would you give away money you earned at the risk of your life?"

"If it would help the unfortunate, yeah," Remo said.

"That's a very simpleminded view of the problem."

"You know, I never liked any of your movies," Remo said as he walked away.

There was a frumpy woman in a purple sweater over a print dress. Remo knelt down beside her.

"How about you, ma'am? Do you think all this sitting on the Capitol steps is going to help you find a home?"

"I have a home," the woman snapped. "I happen to be president of the Grosse Pointe Council of Churches Women's Auxiliary, I'll have you know. And I heard what you said to that wonderful crusader. You should know better than to think giving away money will solve this terrible problem. Only galvanizing the government into providing more social programs will end this national tragedy."

"Oh no," said Remo, noticing for the first time her open-toed I. Miller shoes.

Remo went to the next person, a dusty young man whose face might have emerged from a coal bin. He identified himself as a yet-unpublished author working on a book chronicling the plight of the homeless. It was being financed by a Harvard grant. There were also two reporters for the local newspapers who, when they overheard one another identify themselves to Remo, started a fight over which had exclusive rights to the homeless story franchise.

Remo jumped to the highest step and threw out his hands. "Is there anyone here who is really homeless?" he shouted.

The unpublished writer raised a blackened hand. "I was thrown out of my parents' condo last week."

"That does it," said one of the actor's young sons. "I'm not hanging around with bums. I'm outta here."

"Me too," said the other son.

"You two punks get back here," the father yelled at them. "Where's your social conscience?"

"Up our asses," replied the first son.

"Where yours is," said the second son. "You don't care about this crap any more than we do. You just want publicity for a stupid film about a homeless family starring the three of us. Well, screw that. My box-office pull is bigger than yours now. I'm sticking with solo projects from now on."

"You ungrateful bastard," shouted the father, jumping up.

Another fight started, and Remo Williams, a look of disgust marring his features, walked away. He didn't bother to slip past the cordon of police silently. One of them called to him.

"Excuse me, are you part of this demonstration?"

"No," Remo snarled.

"Then I'll have to ask you to leave. Participation in this activity is by engraved invitation only."

"It figures," said Remo. Then he paused. "Hey, have you seen any real homeless people hereabouts?"

The cop looked at Remo skeptically. "In Washington?" he said. "The seat of our government? Are you nuts?"