"You got it," said Flinn. "Any other little things?"
Wanda shook her head. "Not that I can think of right now."
Ernie returned with the rum raisin ice cream he had bought in Baskin-Robbins.
"For Mademoiselle," he said, placing the china bowl in front of her.
She lifted it and sniffed. "Wonderful, love," she said. "Now I want whipped cream. Real whipped cream. None of that spray crap. And nuts. Walnuts. And chocolate syrup."
"As Mademoiselle wishes." The waiter walked away.
Behind him, Wanda Reidel met Gerald O'Laughlin Flinn's eyes again. She spooned a massive lump of ice cream, the size of a Great Dane dropping, into her mouth. With little streamlets of the ice cream slipping out of the corners of her mouth and dribbling down toward her chin like two tan fangs, she said slowly: "There is just one more little thing, come to think of it."
"You've sold me out. You've sold me out. You've sold me out." Rad Rex's litany started in his usual on-camera baritone and ended in an anguished soprano squeak.
He spun in the pink chair away from the mirror in his dressing room at the television studio on West Fifty-sixth Street in Manhattan, came around to face Wanda Reidel, and for emphasis, stamped his foot.
"You've sold me out," he complained again. "That's it. You're fired."
"Sorry, love, you can't fire me," said Wanda. "No-cut contract. Exclusive. Three years. Without me, you don't work."
"I won't sign with the network. Not for twenty-two hundred a week."
"You don't have to sign," said Wanda. "I already did. Your contract with me empowers me to approve and sign contracts."
"I won't work. I won't, I tell you." Rex's face brightened. "I'll get laryngitis. I'll get the longest case of laryngitis in history. Protracted. It'll go on for months."
"Try fucking around with fake laryngitis and I'll have Mr. Gordons take out your voice box to see if it can't be repaired," said Wanda sweetly. "Don't worry, You'd still be able to work. The silents might come back. Maybe you could even do the life of Marcel Marceau."
"You can't do this to me. This is America." Rad Rex's eyes glistened. His voice seemed to falter,
"No, love. To you, it's America. To me, it's the jungle. Now stop sniveling and look at the good side."
"There isn't any good side."
"I got you time to make a movie, and I'm lining up a great deal for you."
"Big deal. I've got to do double shows."
"So what? It'll be easy for you. You're a quick study."
"And what is this other poop?" asked Rex. "This three-minute spot?"
"That's something very important," said Wanda. "Today, your show's going to be cut by three minutes. After the commercials, you get three minutes to read a message to the audience."
"What message? What do I want to say to a lot of housewives?"
Wanda dug into a straw handbag that looked as if it had been recycled from a Mexican family's sandals.
"You just read this."
She handed Rad Rex a sheet of paper. He looked at it quickly. "What is this crap?"
"The crap you're going to read."
"In a pig's poopoo, I am. It doesn't make any sense."
"Just do it. Consider it a favor."
"For you? Hah!"
"For Mr. Gordons."
Rad Rex looked at Wanda's bland eyes again, then down at the paper, scanning it rapidly, committing the phrases to memory.
Remo sat sprawled in the armchair in their motel room in Burwell, Nebraska.
His legs were stretched out in front of him, and he was keeping time with his big toes to the beat of an invisible drummer. He was bored. To the depth and breadth of his soul, he was bored. Bored, bored, bored.
Already that morning, he had done his finger stands; he had practiced the floater stroke and had not dislocated a shoulder, although he would have almost been glad to, if only to relieve the monotony. He had done his breathing exercises, pulling his respiration down to two breaths a minute. He had worked on his pulse, lowering it to twenty-four and raising it to ninety-six. In his mind, he had done his roadwork, running through a virgin forest in the great Northwest, slipping up quietly on animals, racing with them, usually winning. He had come out of it after he had run into a great doe, a giant female deer, and had begun to think the beast was attractive. That was when he realized how bored he was.
Even his toes were bored.
Seven days in this town would bore anyone. Strange, it never seemed to bore the people who lived in these kind of towns. Maybe it was because they knew more about their towns than he did. One of the perils of being an outsider. Remo Williams, perpetual outsider. Outside everybody. Outside everyplace. No family, no home, no goals.
Strike that. He did have family. It sat in front of him now on the floor, wearing a ceremonial blue afternoon robe, eyes riveted to the television set where Dr. Whitlow Wyatt was revealing to Mr. Brace Riggs that her husband Elmore's disease was fatal. However, Dr. Wyatt had heard of a serum. A very rare serum, prepared in the depths of the equatorial jungle by natives from an herb which they grew secretly. But the serum was unavailable to Western medicine. "We cannot get any?" asked Mrs. Riggs, who loved her husband, even if she had for fourteen years, been having an affair with the Episcopalian priest in town, Father Daniel Bennington. But Dr. Wyatt assured her that there was a chance-a slim chance. If Dr. Wyatt himself went and confronted the headhunting Jivaro Indians, perhaps with an appeal to a greater morality he could coax from them some of the serum.
"You would go?" said Mrs. Riggs.
"I would go," said Dr. Wyatt.
"Go," said Remo, "And keep going."
The organ music came up and over, and the program faded.
Chiun wheeled on Remo. "See what you did?"
"What did I do?"
"They made this show too short. It is three minutes too short."
"I didn't have anything to…"
"Shhh," said Chiun as an announcer came on screen.
"In just a moment, Rad Rex-the star of 'As the Planet Revolves'-will have a special word for special members of our viewing audience. But first these messages."
"You are lucky, Remo," said Chiun.
"Well, as long as I'm lucky, try this. We're leaving. We're going back to get Smith out of that room. No more just sitting here going out of our minds."
"And Mr. Gordons?"
"Screw Mr. Gordons. I'm not going to spend my life hiding while you put into motion some hundred-year program for dealing with him. We'll go find him."
"How like a child," said Chiun. "To choose an obvious guaranteed catastrophe because he is too bored to wait for a better moment." He tried to mimic Remo's American accent, lowering his voice so he sounded like a flute trying to play bass. "Don't matter what happens, pard. Just as long as it happens fast."
"Are you done with the impersonations, Little Father?" said Remo.
"Yeah, Stumpy," said Chiun again in the deep voice, imitating a line from a John Wayne movie.
Since Remo was bigger than Chiun by a foot and heavier by more than fifty pounds, this made him laugh despite his annoyance.
"Stop that cackling," ordered Chiun suddenly. He turned his attention back to the television where Rad Rex's face appeared in closeup. He still wore his doctor's robes. His face, Remo thought, looked glum, not like the healthy smile he wore on that autographed photo of him that Chiun had terrorized the Mafia into providing a few years earlier.
Rex began to talk slowly.
"Friends, it is a pleasure to let you know that I will continue in the role of Dr. Whitlow Wyatt on 'As the Planet Revolves.' " He paused.
"Hooray," Chiun cheered.
"Silence," said Remo.
"Coming into the homes of so many of you every day has been the biggest thrill of my life," Rex said, "and I look forward to continuing with you, trying to bring you good stories about real people caught in the real problems of real life.
"Some people like to sneer at our daytime dramas, to
call them foolish and insignificant. But I know better. I know the lives these stories have touched and brightened.
"And even if my own faith were in doubt, I would be reassured by the knowledge that out there, in television land, there is one who knows. Out there, there is a man of such wisdom and strength and humility and beauty and he approves of what we do here. It is to that person that these shows are directed, because it is from the knowledge of his support that I gain the strength to go on.
"I am now going to Hollywood for a brief period. Some of you may have heard that I may soon make a film, but I want you all to know that 'As the Planet Revolves' will continue.
"So now I am off to Hollywood. And I hope that there I will have the opportunity to meet in person the man I have heard so much about, the man who understands what it is I do, and that I will have the chance to sit at his feet and soak in his wisdom."
Rad Rex looked up and with a small smile directly into the camera, he said: "Beloved Master, I wait for you in Hollywood."
His face faded, and there were a few seconds of pause before the commercials came on again.
"That's it," said Chiun.
"That's what?" asked Remo.
"We are not staying in this room anymore. We are going to Hollywood."
"Why would we go to Hollywood?" asked Remo, "Assuming for a moment, inaccurately, that we were actually going to Hollywood."
"Because Rad Rex is waiting there for me."
"You think that message was directed to you?"
"You heard it. He said wisdom, strength, humility and beauty. Who else do you know that he could have been talking about?"
"He was probably talking about his hairdresser."
"He was speaking to me," said Chiun, rising to his feet so smoothly that the robe seemed almost not to stir. "I will leave you to make the arrangements for our trip to Hollywood. I will hold you personally responsible if we should fail to meet Rad Rex for any reason. I must go and pack."
Chiun swept from the room, a half-second before the trail of his robe caught up with him. Remo saw the bedroom door close behind Chiun and sank even deeper into his chair.
"Chiun," he yelled.
"That is my name," piped back the voice from the other room.
"Why should Rad Rex send a message to you?"
"Perhaps he has heard of me. Many know of the Masters of Sinanju. Not all are as stupid as you once were."
Remo sighed. "Why do you think he wants to meet you?" he yelled.
"To see for himself what perfection is."
Remo nodded in disgust. Just what Chiun needed. More stroking. It was like that dippy mail he kept getting at that Massachusetts post office box, and which he made Remo read to him. "Oh, wonderful, glorious, magnificent, et cetera, et cetera," Remo would read, and Chiun would sit on the floor, nodding agreement. After a month of that, Remo had taken to changing the letters slightly.
"Dear Chiun. You are an arrognant, self-centered obnoxious person who does not recognize the true worth of your adopted son, Remo."
Chiun had looked up. "Discard that one. The writer is obviously deranged and they may not allow him to receive letters in the place where he is stabled."
After a few more, however, Chiun began to observe that Remo was not reading the letters with any great amount of accuracy and had taken over again the task of reading them himself.
And now, more stroking, this time on expensive television. From Rad Rex, yet.
Why? Remo asked himself.
And Remo answered himself: because of Mr. Gordons. It is his way to get us to Hollywood, where he can attack.
And aloud he called to Chiun, "Chiun, we're going to Hollywood."
Chiun reappeared in the bedroom doorway.
"Of course we are. Did you ever doubt it?"
"You know why?" asked Remo.
"Because I want to. That would be reason enough for someone who understands gratitude. What is your reason?"
"Because we're going to find Mr. Gordons there."
"Really?" said Chiun.
"Because Rad Rex is working in cahoots with that box of bolts."
"You really think so, Remo?" said Chiun.
"I know so."
"Oh, how wise you are. How fortunate I am to be with you."
He turned away and reentered the bedroom. From inside, Remo could hear him say faintly: "Idiot."
CHAPTER TEN
"Look, look! There is Clark Clable."
"His name is not Clark Clable, Chiun. It's Clark Gable. With a G."
"Look, look! There is Clark Gable."
"It's not Clark Gable," Remo said. "Clark Gable is dead."
"You just told me it was Clark Gable."
"I told you his name was Clark Gable," said Remo as he felt the sands of reasoned discourse slowly sift away from under his feet.
"If his name is Clark Gable, isn't that the same as being Clark Gable?" Chiun asked.
"Please eat your rice," said Remo.
"I will. I will. I will do anything rather than speak to a person who lies to me." He raised a spoonful of rice to his mouth, then dropped the spoon on his plate.
"Look, look! There is Barbra Streisand." Chiun's voice was more excited than Remo had ever heard it before. His right index finger trembled as it pointed across the room. Remo followed the direction of the finger.
"Chiun, that's a waitress, for Christ's sake."
"As you often say, so what? Maybe Barbara Streisand has a new job."
"Waitressing in her spare time?"
"Why not?" asked Chiun. "Remember you this, white man. There is no glory in any job; there is glory only in the person who works in that job, no matter how slight it might seem. Not all can be assassins." He looked again at the girl in the black waitress uniform who stood across the room, totalling up a check. "That is Barbra Streisand," he said with finality.
"Go ask her to sing for you," said Remo disgustedly. He felt rather than heard or saw Chiun move away and when he turned back, the old man was walking slowly toward the waitress. It had been like this for two days. Chiun, noble and venerable master of the ancient and illustrious House of Sinanju, was star-struck. It started in the airport when he thought he saw Johnny Mack Brown pushing a broom. In the cab, he thought the driver was Ramon Navarro. He was convinced that the desk clerk at the Sportsmen's Lodge where they were staying was Tony Randall, and finally, he had accused Remo of maliciously attempting to deprive an old man of a few moments of joy by denying who all these people were.
Since Barbara Streisand was the great unrequited love of Chiun's life, Remo did not want to watch the waitress's putdown. It would be too painful. He turned and looked out the window at the small trout stream which meandered between the restaurant and the main building of the lodge, less' than a hundred feet from a major highway in a concrete-smothered section of Hollywood.
Remo wondered when Mr. Gordons would come after them. It was bad enough dealing with a man who could have an edge through surprise. But Mr. Gordons wasn't a man; he was a self re-creating android who was an assimilator. He could assume any shape. He could be the beds in their room; he could be the chair Remo sat in. These things were not beyond Gordons' abilities.
And worse, Chiun didn't seem to care, resolutely refusing to admit that Rad Rex was in any way connected with Mr. Gordons.
Remo's inspection of the trout stream was interrupted when a high sound like a strong breeze flicking through tall nighttime trees sailed through the restaurant. It was a woman's voice, singing. He turned back to look at Chiun. The singing had ended as abruptly as it had started. Chiun stood by the waitress, for it had been she singing. Chiun smiled and nodded. She nodded back. Chiun raised his hands toward her as if in a blessing, then returned to Remo, his face wreathed in a beatific smile.
Remo looked past him at the waitress. A waitress?
Chiun sat gently in his chair and without a word lifted his spoon and plunged it into his rice. His appetite had returned, amazingly strong.
Remo star
ed at him. Chiun, chewing, smiled.
"Nice voice she has," said Remo.
"You really think so?" asked Chiun blandly.
"Sounds like… you know who," said Remo.
"No. I do not know who," said Chiun.
"You know. Like… her."
"It could not be her. After all, she is but a waitress. You told me so yourself."
"Yeah, but maybe she's making a film here or something."
"Perhaps. Why not go ask her?" suggested Chiun.
"Aaah, she'd probably laugh at me," Remo said.
"Why not? Doesn't everyone?"
"Swallow spit," said Remo.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Remo called Smith from their hotel room, and the bed-bound director of CURE demanded to know where Remo was.
"Hollywood. I'm having fun in Hollywood," sang Remo in an offkey baritone.
"Hollywood?"
"Hollywood," said Remo.
"That's wonderful," said Smith, dripping sarcasm. "And here I thought you might be wasting your time. And what of me? I would like to get out of this room."
"Just a minute," said Remo. He looked to where Chiun was standing in front of the sheer curtains, looking out the window toward the swimming pool.
Remo did not bother to cover the mouthpiece.
"Chiun," he said. "Smitty wants to get out of the hospital room."
"Smith may do what he wants," said Chiun, without turning. "The master of Sinanju is otherwise occupied."
Remo's eyes narrowed maliciously. He extended the open telephone toward Chiun and said sweetly, "You mean you don't care what happens to Smith?"
He extended the phone as far as he could as Chiun answered, still without turning.
"The activities of even an emperor pale into insignificance when compared with my searching for my own destiny."
"And your destiny involves Rad Rex?" Remo said.
"Precisely," said Chiun.
"In other words," Remo said, "Rad Rex, the television actor, is more important to you than Dr. Smith and the organization?"
"On most days," Chiun said, "the weather forecast is more important to me than Dr. Smith and the organization." He turned. He saw the open telephone in Remo's hand and the nasty tight-lipped smile on Remo's face. He glared at Remo. ' "But those feelings last only a moment," Chiun said loudly. "They are a sign of my personal weakness because in moments I again realize how important the great Emperor Smith and his wonderful organization are to the world and I praise the fates that have brought me into his employ even in so lowly a position as trainer to a pale piece of pig's ear. All hail Emperor Smith. The Master is attempting to think of a way to release him from that explosive trap. The answer will surely be here in California. All hail the noble Smith."
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