Warren Murphy: Last Drop

It was 7:30 when Remo arrived back at the motel. The only sound in the place was Chiun's quill pen scratching furiously at a piece of parchment.

"Sorry I'm late," Remo said breezily. "What's for dinner?"

The old man's head lifted slowly, revealing a pair of hazel eyes glinting with rage. The white wisps of hair on top of Chiun's head raised and lowered rhythmically with the clenching of his jaws.

"Dinner?" he asked innocently. "One does not eat dinner in the middle of the night. At least civilized people do not. When a civilized person is invited by his elder and superior to dine at a proper hour, that person arrives when he is due. Not two and a half hours later."

"I'm sorry, Chiun," Remo said. "It couldn't be helped."

"Of course not. Uncivilized oafs can never prevent their true nature from revealing itself. Especially white men. It is their genetic duty to be rude and crude."

"Okay, okay. I deserve that. But I'm starving. Isn't there any duck left?"

Chiun tilted his head. "Duck? Of course there is duck."

Like a puff of smoke, he seemed to rise off the floor unaided by muscle bone. He walked serenely into the tiny kitchenette and emerged a moment later holding a platter. The platter was heaped with a lumpy black substance.

"Here is your duck, o prompt one." With his fingers he snapped the platter in two. The charred mass clunked onto the floor.

"All right, I get the picture. How about the rice? Is there any rice left? I don't mind if it's cold."

"Rice?" The old man padded back into the kitchenette and out again. In his hands was a smoke-blackened pot, which he upended over the blackened duck. A brown pancake composed of hard, crisp granules flew out. "There is your rice, o industrious assassin who is too busy not killing to return for dinner. Is there anything else I may serve you?"

Remo sighed. "No. No thanks, Chiun. I'll make some tea."

"Tea?" Chiun asked acidly.

"Water, then. Don't worry, I won't soil any of the plastic glasses here with my undeserving lips. I'll just hold my head under the faucet and slurp."

"Mockery. Count on an unmannered white lout to make mock of the graciousness of others," Chiun grumbled.

"Little Father, I know you went to a lot of trouble—"

"Silence," the old Oriental said, picking up his quill. "I have no time to bandy about words with you. My writing now is of utmost importance."

Remo peered over Chiun's shoulder at the parchment. On it he saw the Korean characters for "lout" and "ungrateful."

"Writing about me again?"

"It is the history of Sinanju that I write. From the time of the first Master, whose village was so poor that the fishermen had to send their babies back to the sea."

"Do tell," Remo said, feigning interest in the story he had heard at least a thousand times before. "And I'll bet the Master hired himself out as an assassin to help the village out."

"Hmmph. That is just the beginning. My work follows all the Masters up to and including myself." He read aloud as he formed the careful strokes with his quill. "Chiun was the name of the last Master of Sinanju, with whom the unbroken line ended because there was no one to succeed him except for a loutish white person who refused to practice the arts of Sinanju which are taught to but a handful of beings in the whole of history, an ungrateful wretch who did not even possess the manners to arrive on time for dinner. Seeing the qualtities of leadership sorely lacking in his pupil, the Master was forced to tell the people of Sinanju that there would be no further Master after him."

"And cut off the submarines full of gold bullion that Smitty sends Sinanju every year so that nobody in town ever has to work a day in his life? Oh, the villagers'll love you for that."

Without changing expression, Chiun drew a line through the last sentence and scribbled another. "Chiun, Master of Sinanju, who in the twilight of his years, at last found a pupil worthy of his kindness and goodwill. A pupil of proper color," he recited.

"So you're writing me off, is that it? Sending me to the unemployment line without dinner."

"And lo, the loutish white person, after a long search, found employment suitable to his character," Chiun orated. "Biting the heads off chickens in public places."

"Oh, that's good, Chiun. Insightful. Rich prose style."

Chiun continued, unruffled. "Thus did the ungrateful pupil learn too late that a dinner invitation by the Master of Sinanju was not to be ignored."

"I said I was sorry."

"That is what all chicken-biters say."

The phone rang. "Yeah?" Remo said.

Smith's voice sounded alarmed. "It's all the coffee," he said. "Every brand. Every location. Whole beans included."

"Whole beans? But that's impossible."

"The computers don't say it's impossible."

"Why not? How do you get heroin into a bean?"

"I don't know. But if it were impossible, the Folcroft computers would have said so. The answer is in the beans."

"Where does that leave me?"

"We're still in the dark, I'm afraid. But you have to start somewhere. There's a coffee warehouse in Port Henry, about thirty miles northwest of where you are. Get there the first thing in the morning and find out what you can. If you can't find any information, you'll have to investigate other warehouses in different parts of the country. It's a slow process, but that's all we can do."

"What about the coffee already in the stores?"

"It will all have to be recalled. Of course, as soon as that's done, the perpetrators will no doubt halt their operation."

"What are my chances of catching anyone, then?" Remo asked.

The computers beeped and clicked. "Now that's impossible," Smith said.

Remo hung up. "I've got to go to a coffee warehouse. Want to come along?"

"I will be quite busy conducting auditions for my new pupil, thank you," Chiun said crisply.

"Fine. That's just terrific. I'm sure you'll find somebody who's perfect in every way."

"I will only audition Koreans," Chiun said. "It will eliminate the chaff from the beginning."

"Okay. But I'll be home for dinner tomorrow night. Honest. I'll even cook."

"For both of us?"

"You and me? Sure."

"I mean myself and my new pupil. We will expect to dine at five o'clock."

Remo sighed. "All right. If that's the penance you want, I'll do it."

Chiun smiled tightly and resumed his writing. Remo left, ate a bowl of tepid rice at a Chinese restaurant, and spent the night walking to Port Henry.

?Chapter Six

The warehouse was operating at full tilt. Dozens of hustling workers glistening with sweat scrambled around the long, low cement block building, loading large burlap bags fragrant with the rick dark scent of coffee beans onto forklifts or into shipping crates. Remo went directly to the small office just inside the truck entrance.

A harried-looking man with hands that looked like they were used to rough work was frowning as he poked a stubby index finger onto the keys of an adding machine. Smoke from a fat, worry-chewed cigar steamed around his face like a curtain.

"You the manager?" Remo asked.

"Yeah." The man looked up briefly. "Name's Sloops. You looking for work?"

"Sure am," Remo said.

Sloops puffed at his cigar hurriedly. "You got it."

He rose, shoving a piece of paper toward Remo. "Put down your name and stuff there, so we can pay you. And make it fast. We got more work than we know what to do with."

"Business looks good around here," Remo said conversationally as he filled in the blanks.

"Never been better. Strange thing. People out of work all over the country, and we're turning over more business than we can handle." He puffed out a little laugh. "Well, I ain't complaining. I guess coffee's the only thing people can afford to drink these days."