"They have tried," Smith explained. "So far with no success. General Chesterfield of nearby Fort Joy has offered assistance to the remaining local authorities. They have taken him up on his offer, but as yet the individual or individuals remain at large."
"This is screwy." Remo frowned. "How much trouble could one guy be?"
"I know you meant that rhetorically," Smith said dryly. "But you know as well as I the answer to that question."
"Oh. Right. Well, whoever he is, he's not Sinanju."
Chiun chose that moment to pad into the kitchen. His leather face was stern as he crossed to the refrigerator.
Remo hadn't noticed until now that his voice had gotten louder as his conversation with Smith had proceeded. He had been speaking at his normal level for a few minutes. At Chiun's appearance, he lowered his voice. Pointless now, since he was sure he was going to get reamed for interrupting the elderly Asian's recitation.
"Book me on a flight to New Mexico," Remo said softly. "I'll check out whatever's going on."
"There is a U.Sky flight to Alamogordo leaving from Logan in two hours. I have already made the arrangements."
Remo frowned with his entire face. "What the hell is U.Sky?"
"It is a new shuttle service. I have found their rates to be quite reasonable."
"By reasonable, I assume you mean cheap."
"It is no-frills," Smith admitted.
"Just as long as I don't have to flap my arms out the windows," Remo said as he hung up the phone.
When he turned, he found Chiun sitting at the low kitchen table. The Master of Sinanju had a bowl of cold leftover rice sitting before him. He picked at the white clumps with a pair of wooden chopsticks.
"Smith has another assignment for me," Remo ventured.
"The neighbors and I heard," Chiun replied icily.
"Yeah. Anyway, I don't know how long I'll be."
"Mmm," Chiun grunted as he chewed a mouthful of rice to paste.
"Look," Remo sighed. "I'm sorry I interrupted your little poetry recital. Once I'm gone, you'll be able to go through all twenty-four hours' worth of 'spider eating bug' in peace, okay? Are we friends again?"
Chiun glanced up from his bowl. Hazel eyes glinted. "No," he said flatly. "I am your teacher and you are my tin-eared pupil. I am your adoptive father and you are my thankless foundling. We are victims of fate who have been thrown together. We are not, nor have we ever been, friends."
The somber tone he used was obviously forced. The truth was, Chiun was still in a happy mood, in spite of Remo's interruptions. What's more, thanks to the glimmer in the Korean's eyes, they both knew it.
"You're breaking my heart." Remo grinned, clutching his chest.
"You have no heart," Chiun sniffed in reply. "Nor a soul. If you did, you would not feel as you do about beautiful Ung."
"Beautiful Ung is an oxymoron," Remo pointed out. "Even Robert Frost laughs at Ung."
"I do not know who that is," the Master of Sinanju said. "But if he does not appreciate Ung, then he is no poet." He raised a finger. The nail was long and wickedly sharp. "You would be advised to keep on my good side, Remo Williams. I will soon be in a position to grant you the celebrity you crave."
"Michelle Pfeiffer?" Remo deadpanned.
"She, as well, if that is your wish," Chiun admitted. "But what I was referring to was your own big break, as such happenstances are termed in the Industry. Perhaps I might someday get you your own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame," he added coyly.
Remo felt the lightness go heavy. He was beginning to get a sinking feeling. Chiun was talking movie talk again. Something he hadn't done in months.
On assignment in Hollywood eight months ago, the Master of Sinanju had conned a pair of slimy producers into reading a top secret movie script he had written. If Chiun's early boasting was accurate, his film was going to be produced. He had been in touch with the West Coast as late as last fall, but since then the Master of Sinanju had grown silent on the subject. Remo assumed the deal had fallen through and thought it wise not to press the point. But here it was, resurfacing again.
"Don't tell me you've been on the phone with Bindle and Marmelstein?" Remo asked.
Chiun's thin lips formed a wrinkled smile. "Play ball with me and I will make you a star." That was all the answer he needed.
"Oy vey," Remo muttered.
"However," Chiun warned, "interrupt my Ung again, and I will refuse your telephone entreaties, your name will be stricken from my Rolodex, and I will see to it that you are excluded from the most important social affairs. You will never assassinate in this town again, Remo Williams."
"You don't own a Rolodex," Remo pointed out. The old man's knowing smile told a different story. Remo shook his head. Chiun's movie was something he didn't have the energy to deal with right now. "I've got to get going," he muttered.
Chiun happily returned to his rice.
In the doorway Remo paused, a twinkle visible once more in the back of his deep-set eyes. "Do you really think we're not friends?" he asked.
The Master of Sinanju did not even look at him. "This I have said," Chiun replied, chewing softly.
"I still like you, Little Father," Remo challenged, a broad smile spreading across his face. Chiun continued to chew. "I will like you better when you are gone," he replied blandly.
"Absence does make the heart grow fonder," Remo said with a nod as he stepped into the hallway.
"Leave for ten years and I will love you," Chiun called after him.
Chapter 4
Alamogordo was one of the many cities in the modern West that had grown weary of trying to dispel the myth of the typical small border town. It was a pointless battle. The Hollywood image of New Mexico had been pounded into the consciousness of most Americans since birth.
Even though there were no tumbleweeds rolling down a lonely main street lined with a few windbattered wooden buildings, the small towns out beyond the larger city managed to fulfill the preconceived notion nicely-much to the chagrin of the more urban-minded local community leaders.
Conforming perfectly to the maddening stereotype was the Last Chance Saloon, a parched watering hole that sat on a desert road on the far side of Lincoln National Forest near the town of Pinon.
The saloon had been built in the early 1970s by a pair of enterprising young business partners who had hoped to capitalize on the very image the people of nearby Alamogordo wanted to eradicate. The problem was, they were too successful in recapturing the feel of a lonely desert saloon. They stuck their bar out near the flat black strip of Route 24. If there was an actual Nowhere, the Last Chance was dead center of it. The two men went broke in a year.
The Last Chance went through a number of owners in the ensuing two decades, all the while settling farther and farther into the desert sand.
Buckled almost like staves on a pickle barrel, many of the sand-ravaged wooden clapboards on the street side of the battered old building looked as if they were ready to fall off. The MPs noted this as they slowed their jeep to a stop before the dust-covered porch.
Corporals Fisher and Hamill were following up a lead. So far, five such leads had failed to pan out. Of course, it would have been helpful to know precisely what they were dealing with.
Old Ironbutt Chesterfield-the name affectionately used when referring to their base commander-had turned many of the men under his command over to the local authorities. All anyone really knew was that they were looking for an AWOL private who had been involved in some kind of crazy spree the past couple of days. Word was there'd been a few deaths.