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 cleft 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."