"Some kind of soothing chemical produced in the brain, as I hear it. I'm exempt from drinking the stuff. Someone's gotta keep a clear head."
Evidently they were overheard, because one of the postal workers started to improvise a little ditty. "Serotonin, Serotonin, Dormez-vous, Dormez-vous?" The others joined in.
"Sonnez tes matines!
Sonnez les matines!
Mailman mood.
Mailman mood."
As they launched into their second chorus, Remo pulled out the blank FBI picture of Yusef Gamal and said, "We need you to fill in the blanks on this guy."
"You got the hat right. In fact, it's perfect."
"Thanks," Remo said dryly. "What about the face?"
"Joe only worked here about a year, all told. I don't remember the color of his eyes. Not sure about his hair. He had a pretty ordinary mouth, too."
"In other words, nada."
"Well, he did have what you'd call a pronounced beak. Not like this one here, though."
"Like a falcon or an eagle?" squeaked Chiun.
"More like a camel, actually. It wasn't sharp. It was more bulbous."
From a sleeve of his kimono, the Master of Sinanju extracted a folded sheet of paper, unfolded it delicately and held it up to the postal manager's eyes. "Such as this?" he asked.
"You know, I never noticed the resemblance before, but that's a right good one. Except for skin color. He was pretty white."
"What's this?" asked Remo, stepping around. Chiun directed the fluttering sheet of colored paper toward him. It was a cigarette ad, Remo saw. He blinked. Then blinked again.
"He looked like Joe Camel?" Remo blurted.
"Yes. More or less."
"What do you mean, more or less?"
"More the nose, less everything else."
"You had a postal worker named Joe Camel who looked like the cigarette character Joe Camel, and when the FBI asked you and your people to describe him all you came up with was a cap?"
"The PG asked us to cooperate as narrowly as possible."
"Let me ask you something. Did this Joe Camel look Middle Eastern or talk with an accent?"
"Sure, he talked funny. He was from New Jersey. They all talk funny out that way."
"But did he look Middle Eastern?"
"No, he looked Jewish. But so do a lot of folks from Jersey."
"Spoken like an Okie from Muskogee," said Remo. "What happens when they find Camel?"
"Not my concern. They always find these canceled stamps with a gun in their mouths. My job is to keep the others from going berserk."
Remo eyed the still-singing postal workers. They were doing a barbershop-quartet rendition of "Please, Mr. Postman" that got so hopelessly mangled in the third verse they gave up and picked up "Take a Letter, Maria" in midchorus.
"Hardly any chance of that now," Remo commented.
"Thank God."
"Getting the mail out will be interesting," added Remo, watching a mail sorter dive in a canvas-sided mail cart and start snoring "The Serotonin Song."
"Mail? We can always deliver the mail somewhere down the road. Preserving service cohesion is the priority today."
"Where does Gamal live?" Remo asked the postal manager.
"Over in Moore. You can't miss the place. FBI has it staked out like an anthill."
"Thanks," said Remo, walking out to the strains of "Message from Michael" as paper airplanes made from undelivered mail crisscrossed the air.
OUTSIDE they were followed by Tamayo Tanaka, who demanded, "What did you find out?"
"Prozac is good for the nerves," grunted Remo.
"I take Zoloft," Tamayo said, "It's great. Not only do I wake up humming, but I have daily bowel movements."
"Good for you."
"Begone, rice-for-brains. We are busy," said Chiun. "We could share information."
"What makes you think we have information?"
"You guys are up to something. I can smell intrigue a mile away. Let's pool our facts."
"You first," said Chiun.
"Postal workers go nuts in two states. It's the beginning of the psychological disintegration of the whole postal system."
"What makes you say that?"
"I'm a psycho-journalist. Dual major. Psychology and communications, with a minor in cultural anthropology."
"Sounds like a career strategy," Remo said. Tamayo yanked a green-covered book from her big hag.