Brain Drain Read online

  Wanda smiled. “I suppose he gets those ideas from reading his thousands of fan letters each week.”

  Flinn shrugged. “You know the type who writes fan letters to soap opera stars. Demographically, zeroes. Not worth spit. They don’t have enough money to buy anything, and even if they did, they couldn’t find their way to the grocery store.”

  “Demographics is a lot of shit,” said Wanda.

  “Anyway,” said Flinn, finishing off the rest of the first Bloody Mary neatly. “We’re very close to a contract with Maurice Williams for Rad’s services. How does it all interest you?”

  “First. You’re a liar. You and Maurice Williams are a million miles apart on a contract. Second. More important. Maurice Williams is out.” She looked up from the plate, a tiny driblet of crabmeat sticking from the side of her mouth like the tail of a small fish being swallowed by a barracuda. “They’re out. I’m in. I’m Rad’s new agent.”

  The polish peeled off Gerald O’Laughlin Flinn as if he had just been dipped in lemon juice.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  Wanda smiled. “Now, now, love. It might not be as bad as all that.”

  Flinn picked up the extra Bloody Mary. If he had drunk it, it would have been his third for lunch. But instead he fingered the glass, then placed it back down on the table, inches away from where it had been, but farther from him, symbolically out of reach. One did not swill down Bloody Marys when getting ready to negotiate with the Octopussy, or more blood might wind up being spilled.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t mean that against you,” he said. “It’s just that it’s difficult to be negotiating for months with one agency and then have to start all over again with another. Do you know the minor points we’ve worked out? Hundreds probably. That’s hundreds of points you and I’ll have to start all over again on.”

  Wanda searched for another scrap of crabmeat. Finding none, she used the side of her fork to scoop some of the thick red horseradished cocktail sauce into her mouth. An errant spot of sauce dropped on her chin and remained there for a few seconds until Wanda could put down the fork and pick up the napkin. Flinn looked at the red droplet and said to himself, This women’s going to kill me. This women’s going to eat me alive.

  Wanda answered the unspoken thought. “It just won’t be that bad, Gerry. Not that bad.”

  “That’s what you say.”

  She put her napkin down briskly. She pushed her plate away from her toward the center of the table. It clinked heavily against the base of the full Bloody Mary glass. She folded her hands on the table in front of her, like a seven–year–old sitting in church, waiting to make first Holy Communion.

  “First,” she said, “the hundreds of points you negotiated already. The hundreds. Thousands. I don’t give a shit. They stand. All right by me.”

  Flinn’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Right,” she said. “I don’t care. They stand. Now. What’s Rad making now in the series?”

  “Sixteen hundred dollars a week,” said Flinn.

  “What’s Maurice Williams been asking?” said Wanda.

  “Three thousand a week.”

  “What have you offered?” asked Wanda. She kept her eyes riveted on Flinn’s so he could not look away, could not turn his head to find a lie or half–truth floating around somewhere near the ceiling and snatch it up for use.

  No point in lying, Flinn thought. She could check it out anyway.

  “We’ve offered twenty–two hundred a week.”

  “We’ll take it,” said Wanda.

  She smiled at Flinn’s open look of shock. “Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” She looked around. “Where is that cute little swordsman with my ice cream?”

  Flinn did not care about her ice cream. Right then he did not care about anything except the prospect of rapidly getting Rad Rex’s name on a contract. His right hand reached out and fondled the Bloody Mary. “Just like that? You’ll take twenty–two hundred a week?”

  “Just like that. We’ll take twenty–two hundred a week.”

  Almost of its own volition, Flinn’s right hand brought the full Bloody Mary up close to his mouth and he took a long swallow. He could not remember ever enjoying a taste more. So this was the great Wanda Reidel? The Octopussy? More like a kitty cat, he thought. She was easy. He smiled. She smiled back.

  “But there are a couple of little things I need. Just to sweeten the pot. To show Rad I’m really working for him.”

  Flinn put the drink back down. “What kind of little things?”

  “Rad’s got to have some schedule flexibility, so that when I get him a picture, he’ll be able to make it.”

  “What about the shows during that period?”

  “I’m not asking for time off for him. He’ll double up and tape extra shows before the movie filming starts. I don’t want time off. I said flexibility. I mean flexibility.”

  “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 a
s 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.”

  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, totaling 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–recreating 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 stared 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 off–key 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.”

  Remo scowled at Chiun’s fancy footwork and talked into the telephone again. “Another precinct heard from. Another loyal servant of the great emperor.”

  “Remo, I can’t stay here forever. I’m tired of using bedpans and not leaving my room for fear it’ll explode as I go through the door. Who knows what the hell is going on back at the office without me?”

  Remo felt sympathy for Smith. The man had almost been blown to death; he was living now inside a bomb that could be triggered by God knew what, and his complaint was that he had to get back to the office to get his work done.

  “Smitty, look. Stick it out a couple more days. Gordons is here. If we don’t nail him right away, we’ll be back to get you out.”

  “All right. But hurry, will you?”

  “Sure, sweetheart,” said Remo. “That’s Hollywood talk.”

  Remo’s second call was to a television network public relations agency in New York, where he found that Rad Rex was under exclusive agency contract to Wanda Reidel.

  His third call was to Wanda Reidel’s office.
/>   “Ms. Reidel’s office.”

  “I’m looking for Rad Rex,” Remo said.

  “And who might you be?” The secretary’s voice was chilly.

  “I might be Sam Goldwyn,” said Remo. He began to continue “but I’m not,” but before he could, the secretary was gushing apologies to Mr. Goldwyn and she was sorry and don’t worry, Mr. Goldwyn, Ms. Reidel would be on the phone right away, and then there was a pause and a woman’s brash voice jumped onto the phone and said, “Sam, baby, honey, I didn’t think they had phone service in the grave.”

  “Actually,” said Remo, “I’m not… ”

  “I know who you’re not, love. The question is who you are.”

  “I’ve got business with Rad Rex.”

  “Your name?” said Wanda.

  “I use a lot of names, but you can just call me the Master.” This lie was rewarded by Chiun glaring at Remo from across the room.

  “You don’t sound like the Master,” said Wanda.

  “And how does the Master sound?”

  “High–pitched, squeaky voice. Oriental, almost a British accent. Peter Lorre doing Mr. Moto.”

  “Well, actually, I’m the Master’s assistant.” Remo bit his lip. Chiun nodded in agreement.

  “Give me a name, love.”

  “How’s Remo?”

  “It’ll do. I’ll see you whenever you get here,” said Wanda. “Kiss, kiss.”

  The phone clicked in Remo’s ear.

  “Shit, shit,” said Remo.

  There was only one major obstacle to Remo’s meeting privately with Wanda Reidel. Chiun.

  The Master wanted to see the woman who would bring him and Rad Rex together. Remo, on the other hand, wanted to talk what he hoped would be sense with Wanda Reidel, and therefore it was imperative that Chiun be included out.

  The irresistible force of Chiun’s wishes and the immovable object of Remo’s stubbornness was solved by Remo putting Chiun aboard a bus, with a promise from the bus driver that he would take Chiun on a tour of the homes of all the famous people in Hollywood. Meanwhile, Remo would do a good clerk’s work and find out where Chiun was to meet Rad Rex.

  As he was putting Chiun on the bus, Remo thought of so many times from his childhood, being put on the orphanage bus by nuns to go visit places, places owned and inhabited by people with names, with families, with pasts and presents and futures, and he remembered what he looked like then and asked Chiun suddenly, “Do you want me to make you a nice little sandwich in a brown paper bag?”