The Final Reel td-116 Read online

  When Remo Williams led the disguised mayor of Boston into the midst of the throng gathered on the Common, he was forced to keep his breathing shallow.

  Booths had been erected, offering for sale all manner of hemp apparel. Shirts, hats, pants and coats that looked as if they'd been stitched by junkie seamstresses-which, in fact, they had--were laid out for inspection.

  The clothing angle was being played up by the rally organizers. But in addition to the garment booths there were many more stands featuring all manner of drugs and drug paraphernalia. In spite of all the various drug activity all around, Remo had yet to see a single police officer.

  When they reached the center of the Common, Remo stopped. He released the mayor's handle. "We're here," he announced.

  "Where's here?" the mayor asked worriedly. Though he could hear the many voices, the Revere Ware pot planted over his eyes prevented him from seeing where he'd been brought.

  Reaching out, Remo used the sharp edge of his index fingernail to score the side of the pot. Once he'd cut a perfect oblong, he used the suction of his thumb to remove the thin piece of curving stainless steel. Beneath the newly formed hole a single worried eye blinked rapidly.

  The mayor gasped as he took in the scene. "This is that drug rally, isn't it?" he asked.

  "Yes, it is," Remo replied. "It's also where you're going to learn how to be a good mayor."

  "I am a good mayor," Boston's chief elected official insisted, thinking he'd been kidnapped by one of the gathering's many drug-addicted patrons. "I allow this rally to go on without a hitch every year."

  "And therein lies the problem," Remo replied. The people whom the Liberty Rally attracted were the dregs of the dregs. The fashion of the day was distinctly retro. The young men and women who wandered in a smoky haze amid the kiosks wore tiedyed shirts and torn jeans.

  Nearby a man hung naked from a tree. Even dangling upside down, the actor was recognizable. He had starred as the dopey yet lovable bartender on Salud, a long-running TV show set in Boston. Since that show had gone off the air, the young man had had an inexplicably successful film career.

  "When I was in The Nation vs. Wesley Pruiss, you know, the guy from Gross magazine," the actor was saying to a nude woman who was suspended beside him, "I was stoned straight through production. Didn't hurt my acting one damn bit."

  The woman was taking notes. Apparently she was some kind of reporter.

  Seizing the mayor by the handle, Remo led him to the tree. He pointed to the unclothed celebrity. "This is a lunatic," Remo explained, his voice that of a patient preschool teacher. "What's wrong with this picture?"

  "I don't see anyone," the mayor complained. Remo twisted the handle. The mayor found himself staring into the upturned face of the famous actor.

  "Hey, man," the actor drawled. Taking in the mayor's kettle, his idiot's grin-worn straight or high-grew wide. "Hell of a fashion statement," he said with admiration. "You should really wear hemp, though. Sticks with the theme." He turned his attention back to the woman. "Now, where was I?"

  "He's naked," the mayor gasped.

  "He's also flying higher than Halley's Comet," Remo said. "Both things are against the law." Before the mayor could get his bearings, Remo grabbed the pot's handle. Again he led the man like a dog on a leash through the crowd.

  When they came to another stop and Remo had twisted the handle once more, the mayor found himself looking at a cluster of teenagers.

  They all had the wasted mien of the habitual drug user. The oldest couldn't have been more than fifteen, the youngest around twelve. Before them stood a man of about twenty, a haggard figure in scraggly goatee and faded denim. He was reaching into a mobile hot-dog wagon that he'd dragged to the Common. Instead of foot-longs, he was withdrawing plastic bags half-filled with marijuana. Greedy teenage hands passed cash for drugs.

  "This is what we grown-ups like to call a drug deal," Remo said patiently. "It used to be that this sort of thing was conducted in secret. Thanks to you, it's going on in front of national television cameras."

  Although the mayor could never have been characterized as the brightest bulb on the circuit, even he was beginning to see the direction in which his kidnapper was heading.

  "They do have a permit," the mayor pointed out. The by-now-familiar tug of the pot handle dragged the mayor forward once more. He couldn't help but trail Remo to their next destination. A few moments later he found himself looking down with one weary eye across a table that was filled with all manner of drug paraphernalia.

  Keeping with the main theme of the rally, there were joints, dime bags, bongs and roaches, but in addition to these there were also indications of harder drugs. Crack vials, needles and unmarked prescription bottles filled with various pills, powders and liquids covered the vendor's table. A big cardboard box sat on the grass near the booth.

  "This is a de facto legal illicit-drug store," Remo said to the mayor. "Your policy has made this permissible."

  With suspicious, bloodshot eyes the reed-thin peddler behind the counter examined the man with the pot on his head, as well as his companion.

  "You dudes buyin' anything?" the salesman drawled.

  "If you have a problem with how the Liberty Rally issue is being handled," the mayor said to Remo, "you're welcome to take it up with the city council."

  Remo's hard knuckles rapped the outside of the mayor's kettle. The clanging rattled the mayor's fillings.

  "You're missing the point of good-mayor school," Remo admonished. "Final-exam time. What have you seen tonight?"

  "Uh...um...oh..,"

  It was apparent as the one visible eye struggled with the question that they might be there all night before the mayor figured it out. Remo's own eyes rolled heavenward.

  "That there's plenty illegal going on here to disband this silly rally once and for all," Remo said, exasperated.

  "But the permit-" The mayor hesitated.

  "Does not entitle its bearers to engage in illegal activities," Remo completed.

  "Okay, if I do something-and that's still a big if, mind you-will you get this thing off my head?"

  "Liquid soap," Remo replied. "Ears will ache for a week or so, but it should slip off after an hour of wiggling."

  The eye grew crafty. With the answer already given, it was clear he intended to revert to the "don't upset the applecart" methods he'd used regarding most illegal activity throughout his tenure as Boston's mayor.

  "Look," Remo said, "put it this way. Either you let the cops come in and put a stop to this nonsense, or I promise you the next pot I plant on your head isn't coming off even if you take a blowtorch to it. You'll be running for reelection on the Farberware ticket."

  The eye shot open. "Well, why don't I just go see if I can find a policeman right now?" the mayor offered anxiously.

  "By George, I think you've got it," Remo said. He gave the mayor a friendly pat on the kettle and nudged him out into the crowd. Handle aimed forward, the mayor stumbled through the multitude of druggies. A man with a mission.

  Satisfied with a job well done, Remo turned to go. At the nearby booth another man had joined the first. The new arrival was better dressed, although in the sense of an upwardly mobile hood. He was probably some sort of supplier.

  The vendor was whispering to his companion and pointing to Remo. When he saw Remo looking their way, the vendor grew concerned. Sick eyes strayed to the cardboard box Remo had seen earlier. By the look on the vendor's face, he was more concerned with the box than he was with the array of drugs spread out before him.

  "What's in the box?" Remo asked, curious. Both men appeared shocked to be addressed. The vendor in particular grew panicked.

  "Nothing!" he snapped.

  The intensity of his response indicated that such was not the case. Remo approached the box. He had to push the vendor's desperate hands aside before he could pull it open.

  He discovered a case filled with videocassettes. Frowning, he pulled one loose.

  "You go
t a warrant?" the vendor shrieked.

  "Star Wars?" Remo asked. His face scrunched up in confusion as he read the subtitle. "Isn't this playing now?"

  He felt the muzzle of a gun press his ribs. When he turned, he found the better-dressed thug standing beside him.

  "Put it down and get lost," the man menaced. Remo kept the tape in one hand. With the other he grabbed the barrel of the man's gun.

  The gun swung up in a perfect, fluid arc. It met the spot directly between its owner's eyes with a satisfying crack, continuing deep into the man's brain.

  As the dead man collapsed to the ground, Remo's confused expression didn't waver.

  "Isn't this playing now?" he repeated. The vendor gulped. He nodded dumbly. "Thought so," Remo nodded smugly.

  Tape in hand, he turned away from vendor and corpse.

  ON HIS WAY OFF THE Common, Remo met the mayor once more.

  Three grimy hoods had grabbed hold of His Honor and were spinning him around. Because of the kettle, the portly politician couldn't see them clearly. As he stumbled, the trio laughed uproariously.

  "What's going on?" the mayor shouted fearfully. All at once there came a sharp tugging sensation at his legs. He felt himself being pushed to the ground. Once on his back, he distinctly heard the sound of a fly opening. An instant later his tubby legs got suddenly very cold.

  "They're called junkies, Mr. Mayor," Remo called. His voice sounded faraway. "They steal in order to feed their habit. Right now they're stealing your pants."

  "Stop them!" the mayor cried.

  "Can't," Remo said. "Until you get back to city hall, it's technically still legal. Sorry."

  Flat on his back in the damp grass, the mayor blinked his one visible eye in panic. As the mayor of Boston rolled and shivered in his pink boxer shorts, Remo Williams left the Common, a cheerful smile plastered across his face.

  Nothing, but nothing, could shake his happy mood.

  Chapter 3

  When Remo arrived back home at the condominium complex he shared with the Master of Sinanju, he found every light in the building turned on.

  He mounted the stairs two at a time, pushing into the foyer. As he walked down the hallway to the kitchen, Remo leaned into rooms and flicked off light switches. He assumed that Chiun was in a good mood, hence the compulsion to use up half the electricity on the East Coast.

  On the kitchen counter near the fridge Remo deposited a sack of rice he'd picked up from the corner market. Beside it he dropped the illegal videotape. He was stooping to collect a pot from a lower cupboard when the Master of Sinanju padded into the kitchen.

  Chiun's face clouded briefly as he looked at the items Remo had left on the counter. His eyes lingered particularly over the pirated videotape. After a moment's inspection the shadow passed from his wizened features and was replaced by a look of beatific contentment.

  "I have made great progress on my screenplay while you were away," Chiun said pleasantly.

  "Good for you," Remo said, feigning interest. He was in too good a mood to fight. "You know where there's another three-quart kettle around here?"

  "You took the only one with you."

  "Hmm. No biggee," Remo said. He took out the gallon pot. "You up for supper?"

  Chiun wasn't interested in food. He watched Remo fill the large kettle with water. The old Asian tipped his birdlike head to one side as his pupil placed the pot on the stove.

  "Would you like to hear what I have written?"

  "Maybe after supper," Remo hedged.

  "Maybe?" Chiun asked thinly. There was just an early hint of pique in his singsong voice.

  "Definitely," Remo sighed, turning to the old Korean. "After supper I'm all ears, okay?" Something across the room suddenly caught his eye. He crossed over to the table.

  "You are also all nose and feet," Chiun said, his airy mood returning. "But that is genetics and cannot be helped, even by a Master of Sinanju as gifted as myself. You will love what I have written thus far," he insisted.

  "I'm sure," Remo said disinterestedly. "What's this?" From the low taboret he picked through a bundle of shredded brown paper. Strewed across the table's surface, it looked like the remains of an old supermarket shopping bag.

  "What is what?" Chiun asked innocently. Remo's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he lifted a particularly large section of paper. It said Safeway on one side. When he flipped it over he saw the name R. Blodnick printed in letters so carefully formed they might have been typed. The last name was one of his many aliases. His address was printed neatly underneath.

  "Did I get something from Smitty today?" Remo asked. He glanced around for the package contents. Aside from the paper itself, there was nothing in sight.

  "Oh, that," Chiun said, as if suddenly remembering. A bony hand waved dismissal. "Give it no more thought. The contents were unimportant."

  "Smitty must have thought it was important enough to shell out the dough for express mail, Little Father," Remo insisted. "What is it and where is it?"

  "The what is not important," Chiun sniffed. "As for the where, it is in here somewhere."

  "Where?" Remo pressed.

  "I do not remember. Nor do I have time to form a search party with you, 0 Dudley Dimwit of the Mounties." He turned abruptly from his pupil. "You have kept me from my work long enough." With that the old Korean bounced cheerfully from the room.

  "I hate it when he's happy," Remo grumbled. Feeling his own light mood begin to evaporate, he began methodically searching the room for the mysterious item his employer had mailed to him. It took him five minutes to locate. He finally found it in the wastebasket beneath the rotting carcass of the previous evening's duck dinner.

  Remo washed the plastic surface as carefully as he dared with a sponge and warm water, drying it with a half-dozen paper towels. After he was finished, he carried the object into the main living room he and Chiun shared. Along the way he noted that all the lights he'd turned off on his way in had been turned on once more. This time he didn't bother shutting them off.

  In the living room Remo raised the small black object accusingly. "It's a videotape," he announced. The Master of Sinanju looked up blandly from the dozens of parchments scattered around the woven tatami mat on which he sat cross-legged. A goose quill quivered in his wrinkled, bony hand.

  "Duh," the old Korean said. He bowed his bald head back over his papers and resumed his work.

  "Dammit, Chiun, this could be important."

  In his hand the tape became a black blur. Wind whistled shrilly through the plastic case. Eventually this noise stopped as the momentum Remo built created a vacuum around the cassette. In this void the water droplets from the interior did not so much roll off the tape as they did evaporate.

  "I hope that didn't erase it," Remo said worriedly once he was through. He examined the tape. It seemed fine.

  Chiun didn't look up. "It is only a greasy Arab running around amid fat white men," he insisted. "There was no beauty or depth. Nor were there any explosions or dinosaurs. A poor effort all around. I give it a strong thumbs-down."

  "Thank you, Roger-freaking-Ebert," Remo griped. Remo brought the bone-dry tape over to the VCR, which sat on a stand beside their big-screen television. For a long, silent moment he studied the videotape machine. Finally he turned to the Master of Sinanju.

  "How do you work this thing?" he asked sheepishly.

  "Masterfully," Chiun replied, head bowed.

  "Har-de-har-har. I'm serious."

  "And I am busy," Chiun said, not looking up from his work.

  Remo frowned. He turned back to the machine. He had watched Chiun use the device hundreds of times. The Master of Sinanju was one of the first people outside a television studio to own a private recording device. In spite of decades of having one of the machines in the house and the many upgrades Chiun had gotten since the original, Remo was still lost.

  He turned on the TV and tried shoving the tape in the VCR. He watched the television expectantly. Nothing happened. Remo frowned.


  He tried taking the tape out. It was stuck.

  "If you break it, you own it," Chiun said sweetly. Remo shot him a dirty look. The Master of Sinanju's speckled eggshell head was bowed over his parchments. He was writing furiously.

  Grumbling, Remo returned to the kitchen. He took the kettle from the stove, dumping the water in the sink. Dinner would have to wait. He returned to the living room carrying a small screwdriver. He dropped the videotape he'd picked up from the Boston Common drug dealer atop the TV.

  Twenty minutes of cursing later he had removed the upper assembly of the device. Wiggling the tape from side to side, he managed to remove it from where it had been wedged sideways inside the machine. He had just finished putting the body back on the chassis when the phone rang. By this time his good mood was all but gone.

  "You want to get that?" Remo asked as he tightened the last screw.

  When he glanced at his teacher, Chiun was still writing placidly on his parchments. He made no move toward the phone.

  "Don't get up," Remo snarled to the Master of Sinanju. Leaving the VCR, he crossed over to the telephone.

  Remo snatched up the receiver. "What do you want?" he snapped.

  The voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith, his employer in the supersecret government organization CURE, was like a lemon squeezed onto a dry rock.

  "I see you are your usual jovial self," the CURE director droned. There was an uncharacteristic hint of amusement in Smith's tone.

  "Don't you start acting all happy on me, too," Remo warned. "Chiun is bad enough. If you decide to go all giddy, I'm going to sit in a tub of warm water and open my wrists."

  "Do not expect me to clean up the mess," Chiun chimed in.

  Remo slapped a palm over the mouthpiece. "I'll be sure to bleed all over your screenplay," he sneered.

  Chiun stuck his tongue out at Remo. Even so the flicker of a smile didn't leave his face. The old man's continued happiness only irked Remo all the more.

  "I took care of Mayor Hophead," Remo muttered to Smith, his voice an annoyed grumble.