Warren Murphy: Brain Drain

Remo scowled at Chiun's fancy footwork and talked into the telephone again. "Another precinct heard from. Another loyal servant of the great emperor."

"Remo, I can't stay here forever. I'm tired of using bedpans and not leaving my room for fear it'll explode as I go through the door. Who knows what the hell is going on back at the office without me?"

Remo felt sympathy for Smith. The man had almost been blown to death; he was living now inside a bomb that could be triggered by God knew what, and his complaint was that he had to get back to the office to get his work done.

"Smitty, look. Stick it out a couple more days. Gordons is here. If we don't nail him right away, we'll be back to get you out."

"All right. But hurry, will you?"

"Sure, sweetheart," said Remo. "That's Hollywood talk."

Remo's second call was to a television network public relations agency in New York, where he found that Rad Rex was under exclusive agency contract to Wanda Reidel.

His third call was to Wanda Reidel's office.

"Ms. Reidel's office."

"I'm looking for Rad Rex," Remo said.

"And who might you be?" The secretary's voice was chilly.

"I might be Sam Goldwyn," said Remo. He began to continue "but I'm not," but before he could, the secretary was gushing apologies to Mr. Goldwyn and she was sorry and don't worry, Mr. Goldwyn, Ms. Reidel would be on the phone right away, and then there was a pause and a woman's brash voice jumped onto the phone and said, "Sam, baby, honey, I didn't think they had phone service in the grave."

"Actually," said Remo, "I'm not…"

"I know who you're not, love. The question is who you are."

"I've got business with Rad Rex."

"Your name?" said Wanda.

"I use a lot of names, but you can just call me the Master." This lie was rewarded by Chiun glaring at Remo from across the room.

"You don't sound like the Master," said Wanda.

"And how does the Master sound?"

"High-pitched, squeaky voice. Oriental, almost a British accent. Peter Lorre doing Mr. Moto."

"Well, actually, I'm the Master's assistant." Remo bit his lip. Chiun nodded in agreement.

"Give me a name, love."

"How's Remo?"

"It'll do. I'll see you whenever you get here," said Wanda. "Kiss, kiss."

The phone clicked in Remo's ear.

"Shit, shit," said Remo.

There was only one major obstacle to Remo's meeting privately with Wanda Reidel. Chiun.

The Master wanted to see the woman who would bring him and Rad Rex together. Remo, on the other hand, wanted to talk what he hoped would be sense with Wanda Reidel, and therefore it was imperative that Chiun be included out.

The irresistible force of Chiun's wishes and the immovable object of Remo's stubbornness was solved by Remo putting Chiun aboard a bus, with a promise from the busdriver that he would take Chiun on a tour of the homes of all the famous people in Hollywood. Meanwhile, Remo would do a good clerk's work and find out where Chiun was to meet Rad Rex.

As he was putting Chiun on the bus, Remo thought of so many times from his childhood, being put on the orphanage bus by nuns to go visit places, places owned and inhabited by people with names, with families, with pasts and presents and futures, and he remembered what he looked like then and asked Chiun suddenly, "Do you want me to make you a nice little sandwich in a brown paper bag?"

But Chiun only hissed at him that he should not forget himself and then clambered aboard the giant blue-and-white bus that was already filled with other Hollywood sightseers who were paying three fifty each for the privilege of riding through the streets of Beverly Hill and being gawked at by the townies, who thought they looked funny, and by the pimps, who were ever alert for fresh young meat who might easily be convinced that the way to a movie contract was through a producer's bed and, yes, that the man with the big belly and the twenty-dollar bill was really one of the biggest producers in the world, even if he did say he was a tie salesman from Grand Rapids, Michigan…

In turn the people on the bus gawked back at the townies, who they thought also looked funny and at the pimps because they just knew by the pimps' clothes and cars that they had to be big stars, never realizing that in a town built on stardom, that lived for stardom, the real stars were the only ones who didn't dress like stars. In another town, wearing jeans or slacks and sneakers and doing your own shopping would be a perfect way for a star to melt into the background, to become invisible. But in California, Hollywood-style, it worked in reverse, and the real star-watchers kept their eyes peeled for people who looked dull. And ordinary. And so the cloak of disguise turned out to be a neon light blinking overhead that raucoused, look at me, look at me, here I am.

Which was, after all, just what the stars wanted, their parallel to the Howard Hughes' I-don't-want-any-publicity gambit which had guaranteed him the most intensive press coverage of any almost-living man in the world.

Wanda Reidel was a different matter. She dressed like a slob, not by design, not to call attention to herself, but because she didn't have the sense to know she wasn't beautifully decked out. She thought she looked great; Remo thought she looked like the wife of the owner of an East Fourth Street lighting fixtures store.

Her wrists jangled and clattered with bracelets as she pointed a purple fingernail at Remo, who sat in a suede chair across from her desk, and demanded: "What do you want, love? I thought you were on the level, but with those bones in your face, don't tell me you're not an actor."

Remo resisted the urge to shout, "Just a break, Ms. Reidel. Just a break. I'll do anything for a break," and instead said only, "I'm looking for Mr. Gordons."

"Mister who?"

"Listen, love, precious, sweetheart, honey, dear, and darling. Let's cut through all the bullshit. You represent Rad Rex. You had him tape that crap to get my partner and me out here. The only person… scratch that, thing that wants my partner and me out here is Mr. Gordons. You didn't make a cent from Rex's message, so you did it because Gordons told you to. It's that simple. That gets us up to now. Where's Gordons?"

"You know you've got something."

"Yeah. A nervous stomach."

"You've got rich intensity. You've got the looks. The ability to sound hard. Manly, but without macho. Come on. A screen test. What do you say? Don't tell me you never thought about one?"

"I have, I have," admitted Remo. "But then when they gave Sidney Greenstreet that part in The Maltese Falcon it took the heart right out of me, and I gave up and went back to what I do best."

"Which is?"

"Which is none of your business. Where's Gordons?"

"Suppose I told you he was that chair you're sitting on?"

"I'd tell you you were full of crap."

"You sure you know Mr. Gordons?"

"I know him. I can smell the diesel fuel when he's around. I can hear the tiny click-clicking of electrical connections in that make-believe brain. He smells like a new car. There's none of that here. Tell me, what are you doing with him anyway?"

And as soon as Remo asked the question, he had the feeling, the frightening feeling, that this dippo facing him might just be trying to promote Mr. Gordons into a movie contract. The incredible changing man. Mr. Chameleon. Supertool.

"You're not planning a movie, are you?" he asked warily.

Wanda Reidel laughed. The laugh started in her mouth and ended in her mouth and involved no other organ or body part.

"With him? God no. We've got other fish to fry."

"I may be one of those fish," Remo said.

Wanda shrugged. "Can't make an omelet without a chicken somewhere being raped, love."

"I'm not worried about rape. I'm worried about being dead."