He had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang sharply.
Remo snatched the receiver back up. Down the hall, the Master of Sinanju's angry mumbling grew louder.
"Hi, Smitty," Remo whispered.
"Remo?" asked the puzzled lemony voice on the other end of the line. The tart voice belonged to Dr. Harold W. Smith, Remo's employer and director of the supersecret organization known only as CURE.
"Yeah." Remo turned away from the open kitchen door. He used his body to muffle his voice.
"Is there something wrong? You sound odd."
"You've got a lot of nerve for a guy who sounds like his voice box was soaked in grapefruit juice," Remo commented.
Smith didn't press the issue. Instead, he went straight to the subject at hand. "Remo, what the devil happened in Providence?"
"What do you mean?" Remo asked, his tone one of absolute innocence.
"You knew the assignment, did you not?"
"Yes, I knew the assignment," Remo sighed, annoyed. "It's just things didn't work quite right once I got there."
"I should say not. The accountant you were supposed to deliver into federal hands is dead, and with him goes our hope of sending Bernardo Patriconne to prison."
"Your hope," Remo stressed. "I'd just as soon go in and separate that rat bastard's head from his neck."
Smith sighed. "Need I remind you that this is not a one-man war against the Mafia?" he explained patiently. "The Mob is dying as a criminal force in the United States. We must continue to allow it to seem as if the system is taking care of society's worst elements."
Remo guffawed at this. "Maybe you're the last guy to hear this, but the system is not working, Smitty. For every Mob boss the Feds spoon out, an ocean of scum floods back in to take his place. Cubans, Jamaicans, South Americans, Russian Mafia, Yakuza, Indonesians and about a billion donless Guidos are all running like madmen through the streets. Let alone the Crips, the Bloods, the Gangsta Disciples and all the other homegrown junior skunks."
"I am not going to argue the issue with you," Smith said tartly. "We are discussing last night's debacle. According to my information, Hy Solomon knew enough to sink much of the Patriconne syndicate. Now he is dead."
"I got a replacement," Remo said defensively.
"Yes," Smith said, voice thin. The drum of rapid typing filtered through the receiver as Smith pulled up a file on his computer. "Ennio Ticardi. A low-level Mob functionary with no real knowledge of anything remotely connected to Bernardo Patriconne. It is even questionable if he has ever even met the Rhode Island don."
"Not a problem. If you want I can get him to swear he did," Remo offered slyly.
The ten seconds of ensuing dead air spoke volumes. "Let us put this disaster behind us," Smith droned eventually.
"Fine with me," Remo replied jovially.
It seemed a chore for the CURE director to forge ahead.
"There has been an incident near the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico," Smith began. "Two charred bodies were discovered in the desert this morning."
"And?" Remo asked. "What, a couple joyriding teenagers broke down in the desert and fried in the sun?"
"Hardly. These two were not alone. Similarly burned bodies have appeared in and around Alamogordo. Clearly they are linked murder victims."
"A serial killer who gets his jollies dousing people with gasoline," Remo speculated.
"Perhaps," Smith admitted. "Local authorities have reported a number of deaths. In fact, members of some of the surrounding police forces have succumbed, as well."
"Succumbed?" Remo asked, puzzled. "Don't they believe in guns?"
Smith sounded puzzled. "I am not entirely certain what is going on. But so far, by all accounts only one man seems involved."
"Wait a minute, Smitty," Remo said. "They know who the guy is who's doing this?"
"As I said, I do not know for sure. The accounts are sketchy. From what I have been able to learn, however, it could very well be one man. A man known to authorities."
"So what do you need me for? Why the hell don't they just arrest him?"
"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.