Warren Murphy: Brain Drain

Nowadays anybody could rent a limousine, and some screwball groupies had been known to do just that. A half-dozen of them would pool their money, hide in the trunk, and then, when they got past an unsuspecting guard, park their rented rig someplace and go harass a star. That had happened just last month, and one of Hollywood's reigning cowboy heroes-one of those ten percent of stars whom Joe Gallagher did not also classify as a bastard-had been gang-raped by six young girls, and an inexperienced guard at the gate had been canned.

So Gallagher raised an imperious hand to halt the gray Silver Dawn Rolls Royce as it made the right-hand turn up the slight incline to the guard's booth. The uniformed driver lowered the window.

"A guest of Miss Wanda Reidel to see Rad Rex," the driver said. His voice sounded bored.

Gallagher peered in through the driver's window and saw an old Chinaman sitting in the back seat, his hands folded calmly in his lap.

The old man smiled. "It is true," he said. "I am going to meet Rad Rex. It is true. Honest."

Gallagher turned away and rolled his eyes up into their sockets. Another nut.

He consulted a clipboard in his booth, then waved the driver past.

"Bungalow 221-B."

The driver nodded and started slowly inside the lot.

"A bungalow?" his passenger said. "For a big star like Rad Rex? Why a bungalow? Why not that big ugly building over there?" Chiun asked, pointing to a tall cube of a building, with black sun-guard windows. "Who uses that building?"

"Nobodies use that building," said the driver. "Big shots use bungalows."

"This is very strange," Chiun said. "I thought in this country, the bigger and more important you are the bigger the building you have to have."

"Yeah, but this is California," said the driver as if that explained everything. And, indeed, it did.

Bungalow 221-B was in the back of the lot. Rad Rex was already there, wearing his doctor's smock, sitting at the makeup table in a large rear sitting-room/office and pouring out his tale of woe to the young man whom Wanda Reidel had sent over to be his escort around Hollywood.

"Is this silly or what?" asked Rad Rex. The younger man, a curly-haired brunet with cheeks so lively they seemed rouged, shrugged and raised his hands, palm-upwards, at his sides, a move which jangled his silver bracelets.

"I guess so, Mr. Rex."

"Call me Rad. It is. It is silly. I've come three thousand miles to meet a nobody who watches my stupid show. Have you ever seen my show?"

The young man hesitated a split second, unsure of what to answer. If he said no, he might offend this creep. If he said yes, and Rad Rex was serious in his disdain for people who watched his show, it might reduce him in Rad Rex's eyes.

The thought of the simple truth-that he watched Rad Rex's show only on infrequent occasions and then only to see if they were still hiring gays never occurred to him.

"Afraid not," he said finally. "It's on when I'm working, you see."

"You haven't missed a thing. I play this doctor. Kind of a Marcus Welby with balls. Very big in the ratings."

"I know that. It's got to be very big for Ms. Reidel to handle you."

"Is Wanda your agent too?" said Rex.

The young man laughed self-deprecatingly. "No, no, but I wish she were. If she were, I bet I could get something better than walkons and clothes modeling."

Rex looked the dark-haired man up and down. "Yes, you look like a model. Your body's got the lines for it."

"Thank you, but I want to be an actor. A real actor, not just a star."

Rex turned back to the mirror and began putting a faint oil on his eyelashes with a Q-tip. The younger man realized he had offended him, that Rex probably had thought he was being insulted when the youth talked about being an actor and not just a star, and the young man stepped forward and said, "Here, Rad, let me help you."

He took the Q-tip from Rad Rex, placed his left hand along the side of Rex's right cheek and began to stroke the oil gently on the actor's eyelashes to make them look longer and thicker.

Rex closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.

"Maybe we could find a spot for you in my show. But you'd have to come to New York."

"I'd walk to New York for a spot in your show."

"I'll talk to Wanda about it."

"Thank you, Mr. Rex."

"Rad."

"Rad."

Knock, knock. The rapping reverberated through the room.

"That must be your guest."

"Isn't this terrible? Why me, Lord?" asked Rex.

"Because you're a star," the younger man cooed, patting Rex's cheek softly and then going to the front of the bungalow to open the door.

"Wait. Do I look all right?"

"You look lovely."

The dark-haired man opened the door and tried to contain his smile at the sight of the wizened old Oriental standing in front of him, wearing a black-and-red brocade kimono.

"Yes?" he said.

"You are not Rad Rex."

"No, I'm not. He's inside."

"I am to see him."

"Please come this way." The man led Chiun toward the back room, where Rex sat staring into the mirror, intently examining a nonexistent pimple over the left side of his mouth. He saw the Oriental in the mirror, and smoothing his medical coat over his hips, rose and turned with a slight smile.

"It is you, it is you," said Chiun.

"I am Rad Rex."

"You look just as you do on the picture box."

With a wink at the young man, Rad Rex said, "People are always saying that."

"I will never forget how you saved Meriweather Jessup from a life as a woman of the night."

"One of my better moments," said Rad Rex, still smiling.

"And the ease with which you cured the cocaine addiction of Ranee McAdams was also most impressive."

As he spoke, Chiun rocked back and forth on his feet, like a young boy called into the principal's office for the first time in his school career.

"The difficult I do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer," conceded Rad Rex graciously.

"What do you think was your most famous case?" asked Chiun. "Was it your saving the unborn child of Mr. Randall McMasters? Or the emergency operation you performed on the husband of Jessica Winston, after she had fallen in love with you? Or the time when you found a leukemia cure for the lovely young daughter of Walker Wilkinson after she had gone into a depression over the death of her prize-winning colt?"

Rad Rex looked at Chiun with narrowed eyes. This was a setup. Maybe "Candid Camera." How did this old geezer know so much about a show whose characters changed so fast the hardest thing an actor had to do was to keep the names straight? How did he remember names and incidents that Rad Rex had forgotten the moment after they had happened? It was a setup. Wanda Reidel had booked Rad Rex for "Candid Camera." Rex glanced at the dark-haired young man but saw nothing on his bland face. At least he wasn't in on it.

Rex decided if he was going to be on film, he'd better look good.

He ignored Chiun's questions. "I've told you my name, but you haven't told me yours."

"I am Chiun."

Rex waited for more, but nothing else was volunteered.

"Just Chiun?"

"It is enough of a name."

"Chiun? Chiun?" Rad Rex mused aloud, and then the name came back to him. "Chiun! Do you have an autographed picture of me?"

Chiun nodded in agreement, happy that Rad Rex had remembered.

Rex sat down cautiously. Maybe it wasn't "Candid Camera." Maybe this old guy was a front man for the Mafia, and they wanted to produce a picture, He had always thought you had to be Italian to be in the Mafia. Best to be cautious.

"Won't you please sit down and tell me something about yourself ?" he asked.

"I think I'd better leave," the young dark-haired man said. "I'll see you later, Mr. Rex. Mr. Chiun."