Walking Wounded td-74

by Warren Murphy

  "That was an expensive yacht," huffed Fester Doggins.

  "Maybe some deserving orphan will find it," Remo said absently.

  "Sure, be casual. You can buy three of them after you resell my coke. Thief. "

  Remo yanked Fester to his feet and dragged him over to the pickup truck. He set him behind the wheel and placed both hands on the steering wheel, which had a rattlesnake-skin cover. The spokes of the wheel were shiny chrome and there was a series of round holes punched in them. Remo widened two holes with his fingers, inserted Fester Doggins' hands into the holes up to the wrists, and scrunched the holes so that Fester was virtually handcuffed to the steering wheel.

  "I don't think I can steer too good with my hands like this," Fester pointed out.

  Remo released the hand brake, and the pickup started to roll toward the water.

  "Hey, what're you doing?"

  "Saying good-bye," said Remo, walking along with the truck. "Good-bye."

  "Hey, I'll drown."

  "Tough. You sell dope. Dope kills people. Don't you watch the public service messages?"

  "Hey, there's a fortune in coke in the back of this thing. It's all yours."

  "Don't want it," said Remo, kicking a stone out of the way at the right-front tire. The pickup continued lurching along. Fester Doggins tried to steer away from the water, but the skinny guy kept straightening the wheel. "Hey, you're throwin' away a fortune."

  "So?"

  "Can't we deal?"

  "No, "

  "You're gonna let me die?"

  "Drown, actually. "

  The awful truth sank into Fester Doggins' head. "Well, how about a last toot, then?"

  "No time. Here comes the water. Think nice thoughts. They'll be your last. "

  "Hey, let's talk about this. Tell me what you want! What do I gotta do? Tell me!"

  "Just say no."

  "Nooo!" said Fester Doggins as the truck's front tires jumped the seawall. The truck slid along its chassis and nosed into the water. It stopped with the rear deck sticking up and the cab entirely underwater. Gasoline mixing with the water made rainbows in the bubbles of Fester's last breaths.

  "Too late," said Remo, and sauntered off.

  The Master of Sinanju was waiting for Remo at the motel room. Chiun held up a long-nailed finger at Remo's entrance.

  Remo walked on cat feet to see what he was watching. Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju, had rearranged the furniture since they had checked in this morning. The big double beds were vertically stacked in a corner and the chairs and tables floated in the pool outside the sliding glass doors. Only the big TV remained, and it was set in the middle of the bare floor.

  Chiun sat on a tatami mat three feet in front of the TV. His wrinkled visage was fixed on the screen. His bright hazel eyes were rapt. He wore a brocaded robe that was heavy enough to be put into service as a throw rug in a British castle.

  Remo, seeing that his trainer was intent upon the television, watched curiously.

  On the screen, a large black woman in a tent dress smiled into a hand microphone. She was surrounded by a studio audience.

  "Isn't that-?" Remo began.

  "Hush!" Chiun said.

  A colorful graphic appeared over the woman's bovine face as the audience began to applaud vigorously. The graphic read: "The Copra Inisfree Show." Remo was surprised to see Chiun applauding too.

  Remo shrugged and sat down next to the Master of Sinanju.

  "Today," Copra Inisfree rumbled out in a voice like coffee percolating, "parents who trade their children for rare comic books. After this."

  "Yesterday, it was people who worship cheese," Chiun told Remo during the panty-hose commercial.

  "Amazing," Remo said.

  "Yes, I agree. To think that your government allows this woman to broadcast to the world what imbeciles comprise its citizenry."

  "That wasn't what I meant. I saw her in a movie last year. The Colored People, or something like that. She was very fat."

  "She has been on a diet. She talks about it incessantly."

  "That's the amazing part I was getting at. She lost all that weight and she still looks like a lady wrestler."

  Then Remo felt Chiun's hand clamp over his mouth. Copra Inisfree was back. She launched into an interview with a young couple who told in heart-rending details about selling their two-year-old girl for a complete set of The Amazing Spider Man, only to change their minds when they discovered the fifth issue had a missing page. They spoke tearfully of their protracted legal battle to recover their precious baby. When they were done, the audience sobbed uncontrollably. Copra Inisfree blubbered until her mascara, which looked as if it'd been applied with a lump of coal, streaked her full cheeks.

  When the next commercial break came, Remo felt Chiun's hand withdraw suddenly. "I don't think I can take the next segment," Remo said, getting up.

  But Chiun did not answer. There were tears running down his cheeks too.

  "Oh, brother," Remo said. "I'll see you later."

  "Monday it will be interviews with abandoned pets whose masters are missing in Vietnam. Do you think Smith will let us stay here another few days so that I may see that program?"

  "I doubt it. But I'll ask him."

  "Be convincing."

  "Why? I don't care about this nonsense."

  "You were in Vietnam, were you not? Do you not care about your missing Army friends?"

  "I was a Marine. And Vietnam was a long time ago," Remo said coldly as he walked out the door.

  Chapter 3

  Copra Inisfree sweltered. The blazing tropical sun seemed only inches from her wide face. It leached precious fluids from deep within her and brought them to the surface as sweat. The sweat dried almost instantly so that vapor drifted off her body in whirling billows. She felt like a steamed ham.

  "I don't think I can take any more of this heat, Sam," she complained. "Find me a rickshaw. Hurry."

  "This is Thailand, not Hong Kong," said Sam Spelvin, producer of The Copra Inisfree Show. "They don't have rickshaws here. "

  "Then get me a litter or something. Anything. I don't think I can go another step."

  Sam Spelvin turned. He stared up the wheeled stairway. Copra Inisfree teetered on the top step. "Copra baby, you haven't even left the plane yet."

  "But look at these steps," moaned Copra, clutching the edges of the passenger jet's door for support. "I don't do steps. Don't they have Jetway ramps out here?"

  "We're lucky they have an airport. Now, come on, you can do it. Look at me. I'm halfway down with all your luggage."

  "What happens if I fall?"

  Sam Spelvin wanted to say, "You'll bounce, you ball of blubber," but thought better of it. What he did say was, "I'll catch you, sweets."

  "Promise?"

  "Absolutely." And as Copra started lumbering down the steps, he prepared to jump out of the way. Just in case her high heels buckled like they did in Paris.

  But Copra Inisfree made it to the bottom step without incident. A native taxi was waiting for them. "Thank goodness," Copra said, collapsing into the back of the open vehicle like a deflating bladder. The car sank on its chassis so far that, once Sam Spelvin squeezed into the front and they got going, the fenders struck sparks off the tarmac.

  "Okay," said Sam when they were in traffic. "Here's our itinerary. We're going to the Sakeo relocation camp right away. They're not expecting us until after we check into the hotel. If we hit them early, they won't have time to mount the usual dog-and-pony show. We should get a better guest selection this way."

  "Sounds great," Copra said, waving air in her face. "What are we looking for again? I forget."

  "The camp is full of Vietnamese refugees who want to come to America. Some of them have been there for years, waiting for sponsors."

  "Sponsors! Like the panty-hose people?"

  "No, like someone who'll pay their passage to the States, take them in, and help them get started on a new life."

  Copra frowned. Even the cle
ft in her chin frowned. "Sounds like work," she said. "Why would anyone want to help people they don't even know?"

  "Charity."

  "Charity is giving money to the poor. Last year I gave twenty thousand dollars to charity," she said proudly.

  "You grossed five million smackers last year. You can afford it. Ordinary people can't do that."

  "Don't tell me about ordinary people. I deal with them every day, like last week's show on people who believe the same assassin killed Marilyn Monroe and Elvis."

  "Some people would argue that the people who guest on your show aren't prime examples of ordinariness."

  "If they're not, why are there so many of them?"

  "Good point," said Sam. "You know, I was thinking of sponsoring one of these Vietnamese kids myself. They make good domestics."

  Copra perked up. "Do they do windows?"

  "We can ask," said Sam as the taxi carried them to the wire gates of the relocation camp.

  "Look how thin they are," Copra said as she saw the emaciated look of the people watching her from behind the wire. "While we're here, let's ask about diets. Maybe they know some Vietnamese diet secrets."

  "They do. It's called starvation."

  "I don't think I could handle that. I've got a six-month supply of prime ribs in my basement freezer. If I starved myself, it would all spoil."

  "No pain, no gain," said Sam, helping Copra heave herself out of the cab. Actually, he just touched Copra's fat-sheathed elbow and planned to dodge out of the way if she stumbled. The last Copra Inisfree producer had been on a studio elevator when Copra had stepped on-all 334 pounds of her-and the cable snapped. Fortunately for Copra, the elevator fell only one flight to the basement. Unfortunately for the producer, Copra fell on him. Three spinal-fusion operations later, he was getting around with a walker and considering himself lucky.

  "You know," Copra mused as they walked through the compound gates, "I'll bet some of these people had to resort to cannibalism to get here. Wouldn't that make a great show? People who ate their relatives to reach America. Let's be sure to ask that question."

  "Better hurry," Sam suggested. "Once our government contact finds out we've arrived, it'll be the screened tour. "

  And like a bull-dozing Zeppelin, Copra Inisfree waded into the crowd. She shook like a Jell-O sculpture in an earthquake.

  "You, sir," she bellowed at a middle-aged man. "How did you get out of Vietnam?"

  "I walk," the man said.

  "And what did you eat to get here?"

  "Bugs. "

  "Good, go stand over there. You, madam. Speak English?"

  "A little."

  "You're doing fine, honey. What did you eat?"

  "Grass. Weeds."

  "Okay," Copra shouted. "Listen up, people. Grasseaters stand off to my left. Bug-eaters to the right. Maybe we can get through this fast."

  Hesitantly the Vietnamese milled about until there were two groups, segregated by diet. They smiled in embarrassment.

  Copra looked around. There were still some people not on either side. They looked at her in bewilderment. "You, son," Copra asked a little boy. "What did you eat in Vietnam?"

  "Sometimes I eat dog."

  "Dog's no good. I don't think our audience would go for that. Besides, we just did a dog-confession show. People who take their dogs to church. Sorry, kid. Next time."

  "I don't know, Copra," Sam offered. "I think we can squeeze a show out of dog-eating. We can tape and run it on a delayed basis."

  "Good thinking. Hold everything, people," Copra yelled. "Change of plan. Dog-eaters go stand by that tree over there."

  Everybody went to stand by the tree, including the grass- and bug-eaters.

  "Dog-eating must be popular out here," Copra said with disgust.

  "Don't let it throw you, Copra baby. Ask 'em about people."

  "Right. Now, can I have your attention again? Did any of you ever eat a person, a fellow human being? It doesn't matter who. It can be a brother or parent or child. Come on, don't be shy. Anyone who ever munched out on the relative? No relatives? How about strangers? Anyone ever eat someone they didn't know?" asked Copra Inisfree, thinking that a show called "Strangers Who Eat Strangers" would fetch an easy thirty share in the ratings.

  The crowd regarded Copra Inisfree as if she were voiding in public. Some of the children covered their mouths and giggled.

  "No one? Are you sure? Anyone willing to admit to eating a person to get out of Vietnam can come to America with me and be on my show."

  Copra was suddenly surrounded by an eager throng. They clutched her arms, plucked at her clothes, and all but pushed her to the ground and made love to her.

  "Me! Me! I did! Take me to America now," they squealed.

  "Sam," Copra called out from the crowd. "This isn't working." Then she disappeared from sight. The ground shook.

  Sam groaned. He yelled for help.

  The camp guards scurried up and pulled the refugees off Copra Inisfree. She lay in the dirt like a beached whale. She did not move.

  "Copra! Copra! Are you okay?" Sam pleaded.

  "Sam, I can't get up."

  "Where are you hurt, baby?"

  "I'm not hurt, you ninny. I can't get up. Help me."

  "Wait right here," Sam told her.

  "Don't leave me like this. I just need a strong shoulder to lean on. Just till I find my feet."

  "I'll see if there's a crane . . . I mean some strong backs anywhere around here," Sam promised.

  While Copra Inisfree lay in the dirt cursing her producer under her breath, a wiry Asian man walked up to her.

  "My name Phong," he said.

  "Don't bother me unless you had a sex-change operation and want to tell America about it."

  "You television lady?"

  "Beat it. Unless you can help."

  "Wait."

  "I have a choice?" Copra asked the sky.

  The wiry Asian disappeared. He came back lugging a round, flat stone. He lifted Copra's frizzy head and slipped the stone under her neck.

  "I can think of a better pillow," she told him.

  "Not done yet," Phong said. He knelt on the ground, his knees resting on either side of her head. For a wild moment Copra thought that this was some exotic kind of Asian sex ritual. She opened her mouth to scream, then remembered that the last time she'd had sex she had to pay for it. She shut her eyes and hoped for the best. Maybe if he did rape her she could go on Donahue and show that piker how to make ratings.

  The Asian lifted her head with one hand and Copra felt the cold stone under her neck slide down to the small of her back. Then her head was resting in the man's lap and she started to feel a sense of delicious anticipation. The man took her by the shoulders and pushed with all his strength. His foot jammed the stone into the small of her back and suddenly Copra sensed that she was sitting up.

  She opened her eyes.

  "Not bad," she said. "I could use a resourceful guy like you."

  Phong stood up and took Copra's hand. "Get ready," he said.

  "Whoa. One step at a time. Let me catch my breath. That was a lot of work. Whoosh!"

  "Okay," Phong said, squatting beside her. "I have proof."

  "Yeah?" said Copra, primping what one fashion magazine called "The Last Afro Haircut Known to Man."

  "Proof of MIA."

  "Good for you," said Copra.

  Sam Spelvin came running up. He had three strapping young men with him. They looked like bodybuilders. "Copra. I brought help."

  "Too late. Thong here is on the job."

  "Phong," corrected Phong, jumping to his feet and bowing before Sam. "I have proof of MIA."

  "Did you hear that, Copra?"

  "Yeah. So what?"

  "MIA's. They're one of the hottest issues going. You did two shows on them last year."

  "I did? Which ones?"

  "You remember. Twins of American POW's, and wives who cheat on their POW husbands."

  "POW's? This guy is talking about MIA's.
"

  "Prisoners of war. Missing in action. Same difference. None."

  "Why didn't anyone tell me?" Copra complained. "I could have done four shows last year. Brought all the guests back and called the POW's MIA's. Then we wouldn't have had to do that clunker about sex with fish."

  "Never mind, Copra baby. Let's hear this guy's story." Sam turned to Phong. "You have proof?"

  "Yes, proof of MIA. You wish to see? Take me to America. I show."

  "Show us now. Then we'll take you to America."

  "Okay," Phong said. And he began to unbutton his shirt.

  "Hey, keep your shirt on, pal," Sam Spelvin said. "We're not auditioning Vietnamese bodybuilders here."

  "I have proof I show," Phong said. He finished pulling off his shirt and presented his back to them.

  His back was covered with plastic sheeting that was taped on all four sides with silver duct tape. The sheet hung loose and rippled when Phong moved.

  "What's this?" Copra asked.

  "I put on back when get to camp. To protect. Take away. You see."

  Sam shrugged. "Okay, I'll bite," he said, he started to peel away the tape. Phong made painful noises. "Oh, God, I can't look!" squealed Copra Inisfree. She covered her face with her hands. Her entire head disappeared. "He's probably got some grisly war wound."

  "Think again," Sam Spelvin said. He had the sheeting in his hands. He was looking at Phong's bare back. Copra looked too.

  Copra was so astonished that she did something that was to become a legend around the water cooler back at her home studio. Without thinking, she got to her feet without anyone helping her. She grabbed Phong, spun him around, and gave him a kiss that almost broke his front teeth.

  "Phong baby, you're coming to America."

  Phong's dark eyes lit like candles. "I am?"

  "I got just one question to ask you."

  "What?"

  "Do you do windows?"

  An hour later Phong found himself seated in the first-class section of a Thai passenger liner. As the Bangkok airport sank beneath the rising wings and they vectored out over the immaculate blue of the Gulf of Thailand, he made himself a vow that he would not rest until his American friends were one day free to return to their homeland too.

  And then all the nervous energy that has sustained him for so long rushed out of him like air leaking from a balloon. Phong lay across three empty seats and went to sleep.