Warren Murphy: Last Drop

Remo slipped out quickly and waited behind a tree. The truck was parked at the top of a grade leading to a sulphurous-smelling pond below.

Remo guessed that around the time those long-vanished New Yorkers were strolling through the park, during the days before Mace and pneumatic scream alarms were invented, their kids were splashing around in the pond. Now the pond was in worse shape than the park, its thick veneer of green scum punctuated by a few hundred beer cans and a rainbow of assorted flotsam and jetsam. In the darkening night, the effect of the pond was more olfactory than visual, though: it stank as if the entire Russian army had camped there and died.

New Yorkers didn't complain about the pond because the nose is a delicate sensor, and in New York it gives out in humans at the age of two. Besides, the city reasoned, the truly demented wouldn't care how the pond smelled.

"See, Ben?" the driver said. "I told you he wouldn't be here."

"Yeah, Sam," Ben said, nodding vigorously.

"He was just some nut."

"Some nut. Yeah."

"Get out the dolly."

"Oh, I don't think you'll need that," Remo said, taking the dolly out of Ben's hands and tossing it up into the trees. Ben screamed.

"Hey," the driver said.

"Look, Sam," Remo said wearily to the driver. "I haven't slept in three days. Now, I've tried to be nice about this. You know there's nuclear waste in those drums, and you know that if you dump it in the middle of Manhattan, you'll contaminate everything on the island. Food, water, the soil—"

"I don't know nothin'," Sam said stubbornly. "This is just my job. And if you don't think that pond's already polluted, you ain't got a nose on your face. Nobody's going to notice."

"That's not the point," Remo said.

"Oh, yeah? What is the point, mister?" Sam taunted.

Remo rolled his eyes. He was tired. He was sad about the condition of the lake. Of New York. Of the world. Of life. He despaired of the Crusades. Killing was a subject he should never have tackled. And Sam's opening was too good to pass up.

"Here's the point," Remo said flatly, picking up the man by the thigh so that he dangled upside down over the metal container of radioactive waste. "On the top of your head."

Oh, reason, where have you flown, Remo thought as he drilled a hole in the can with Sam's nose.

"Holy shit, Sam, you okay?" Ben asked, his limbs twitching.

Sam didn't answer. His shoulders followed his head into the small hole, melting bonelessly. His torso disappeared, and so did his legs, leaving only a pair of scuffed shoes on top of the can. After a moment the shoes wiggled and separated. Between them bobbed a clean white skull.

"Agghh," Ben gurgled.

"Next?"

"Don't, mister," Ben whispered. "Just tell me what you want."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Remo said.

"W-why?" Ben ventured.

Remo stared at the remains of Sam in the poisonous barrel. "You know, it's just not fun anymore."

"Good," Ben said softly. "You want I should drive this truck back to the plant?"

Remo shook his head. He arranged the skull of the dead man so that it fit squarely in the middle of the hole in the opened drum, then filled up the excess space with small rocks and leaves. "That ought to hold it for a while," he said.

Drudgery. Once you start thinking about killing, it's just another chore. "Might as well be washing windows," he said desultorily.

"Say, that's an idea," Ben offered.

Remo threw him into the passenger seat. Then he hoisted the drum containing Sam's remains onto the truck and got in on the driver's side. "We're going to the police."

They rode in silence until they neared the police station.

Ben cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he squeaked.

"What?" Remo said.

"You going to tell the cops you killed Sam?"

"What time is it?"

Ben looked at his watch. "Seven-thirty."

"No time," Remo said. "I've got to catch the ballet."

"Oh," Ben said, inching toward the door.

Suddenly, without warning, Remo vaulted out the cab window and landed on his feet in the shadows. Through the darkened windshield he saw Ben grasping frantically for the wheel, bringing the truck to a halt in front of the precinct doors.

"Hey!" he yelled. "They're going to think I killed him!" Ben started out the door, but was halted by two curious policemen who were circling the truck.

"That's the biz, sweetheart," Remo said, kicking a stone along an alleyway.

Killing was the pits.

* * *

The lights at Lincoln Center were brilliant, illuminating the lavish fountains in the courtyard. Walking among the columns in front of the New York State Theater was a diminutive figure draped in billowing green brocade robes. His white hair stood in a tufty cloud on top of his head, and hung in long strands from his upper lip and chin.

Chiun's age was somewhere between eighty and a hundred, but when he smiled, he looked like an eager child.

"I like this place," the old man said, gesturing grandly toward the stately buildings and their glamorous patrons. "It is good to be at last among surroundings suitable to one of my station."

"Yeah," Remo said. "Terrific."

"What is wrong, o uncultured one? Perhaps the prospect of broadening your mind is distasteful to you. You would prefer, no doubt, to gobble hot dogs and ogle the udders of white females?"

Remo grunted.

"Hark, it speaks."

"I'm sick of killing."

"Ah," the old Oriental said sagely. "This I understand."

"You do?"

"Of course. When one practices the art of assassination as you do, one is bound to become disillusioned. But do not sorrow, my son. You will improve with a little practice. Ten, fifteen years. Practically overnight." He patted Remo gently on the shoulder.

"It's not that, Little Father. I'm just tired of killing people for a living. I don't want to do it anymore."

Chiun arched an eyebrow. "And what, may I ask, do you propose to do since this great revelation? Sell washing machines?"

The lights dimmed and brightened in the lobby, the signal to enter the theater. "I don't know. But I'm not going to kill anybody else. I've thought it over."

Chiun sighed as he settled into his seat in full lotus position. "I guessed as much."

"Guessed what?"

"That you have been thinking. Like killing and making love, thinking is an activity which should only be undertaken by those who know how to do it correctly. In your case, you should stick to killing."

"Very funny."

"And only under supervision."

Remo sat back. He wouldn't have to tell Smith about his decision until intermission. Till then, he'd have time to take a nap. The first act of Giselle was as good a place as any to catch a few winks, and he was bone tired.

"Disgraceful," Chiun muttered as soon as the curtain came up.

"Hmmm?" Remo cranked one eyelid open.

"This is not dancing. Where are the fans? Where are the streamers?"

"This is ballet," Remo said. "It's different from Korean dancing. They use their feet."

"A shameless display of leg-showing. Girls should have more modesty. Look at that one in the white jacket. Ruffles at the collar, and no skirt. She is ladylike only around her neck."

"Where?"

"On the stage. A carnal exhibition. And big legs, too. White legs. Who would have such a woman?"

"That's not a woman, Chiun. It's a man."

"A man? With no pants?"

"Quiet down, Little Father."

The old Oriental looked around. "Why? Are you afraid I will wake someone up?"

Remo scanned the seats around him. Indeed, almost half the audience seemed to be fast asleep. He craned his neck to see into the orchestra section. A thousand heads bobbed up and down rhythmically as the air welled with the sound of deep snoring.

"Everybody's conked out," Remo whispered.