No Contest

Remo sighed. His new career wasn’t getting off to a roaring start. “You’re a load of laughs, Dayla.” He strolled back to the elevator and pushed the button as he folded his receipt into his pocket and removed a tool, brought along for just such an emergency. It was a paper clip, which he held between thumb and finger at his side. Then he flicked it.

The paper clip flashed through the office. Dayla never saw it coming, never saw the little bent wire snag itself into her hair. All Dayla ever knew was that her hair was flying off. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes rolled upward and she grabbed at her shaved scalp as the wig plopped to the floor behind her.

Remo glided in as Dayla hit the deck, scrambling to get her hair back in place. She never saw him sneak past.

“Hi? Got a minute?” Remo asked, stepping into the office labeled Olaf Dasheway.

“Who are you?” Dasheway was a sallow man in his upper fifties. His suit was expensive, but there was no disguising the sloppy signs of chronic stress.

“Romeo Dodd. I’ve got an idea for a TV show.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Chill, Dasheway. I’m here to save your ass.”

Olaf Dasheway had been in show business for years and had sat through thousands of pitches for TV shows. He ended up producing maybe ten or twelve of those. Some of them made him a lot of money.

Then he stopped listening to other people’s ideas. His ideas were always just as good. He knew TV. He knew what the world wanted out of its TV. Or, at least, he used to. The world had turned against him.

“Listen, buddy, I need your ideas like my wife needs another pair of black shoes. Out” Dasheway pointed the way.

“Listen, your company is about to go under. All your series tanked this season, and you’ve got nothing in the works with any chance of being big. You need something big.”

Dasheway didn’t need one more moron telling him what he already knew. “Get out.”

Dasheway’s intruder nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, I’ll go, but before I go I want to tell you about my special talent.”

Oh, great, Dasheway thought, expecting the guy to expose his privates. The guy didn’t do that, just told Dasheway about his special talent.

“Fine,” Dasheway said. “I’m thrilled for you. Now leave.”

“You wouldn’t tell me to leave if you believed I really have this special talent,” Remo added, opening the office door. “Maybe you should watch.”

Dasheway was intrigued. The guy was awfully calm for a lunatic. Most nutcases wouldn’t have left so agreeably. He went to the hall, watching the intruder.

The intruder stopped by the receptionist’s desk. “Hi,” Dasheway heard him say. The guy started chatting.

Dasheway laughed to himself. Chatting up Dayla Darrin was a waste of time. Half the celebrities who came into this place—TV stars, big-name producers and even a billion-dollar film director—had tried to make time with Dayla Darrin. Nobody succeeded.

Dayla made a strange sound and got to her feet The sound was a giggle. Dayla never giggled. She was holding her purse.

“I need the rest of the day off!” she said breathlessly as she rushed back to Dasheway.

“But—”

“Then I quit. Bye.”

She went back to the stranger. He tried to take her hand. She practically straddled him all the way to the elevator.

“Wait!” Dasheway called, and thank God he reached them before they were gone.

Chapter 10

Olaf Dasheway was trying to regain his composure.

“I’m not saying I believe you. You and Dayla could have set up that little show for my benefit. I have to see evidence.”

“Fine.” The intruder, Romeo Dodd, was in the back of the limo looking unimpressed. He was definitely hard to read. Dasheway thought he looked normal enough at first glance. His shoes were definitely expensive. Maybe stolen. His Chinos and mauve T-shirt were as bland as white bread. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Then, you start noticing oddities. What was the deal with those huge wrists? Did he overwork them obsessively? Guessing his age was next to impossible. Old enough to drink legally and too young to retire—that was about as close as Dasheway could pin it.

The guy’s eyes didn’t seem to fit in the picture. They gave Dasheway the willies. They were cruel eyes, but not romantically cruel movie-star eyes. Just plain cruel.

There was definitely a lot that was odd about this person, and Olaf Dasheway was daring to hope the man really could do what he said he could do.…

“You understand that I need to test you.” Dasheway was trying to go belligerent on the dark-haired man, but Romeo Dodd was unflappable.

“Fine.”

“I pick the victim. I mean target.”

“Okay.”

Dasheway picked a target that he knew would be almost impossible. They entered the Baron Souprema Cafeteria with only a minor fuss. The cafeteria required jackets for lunch dining.

“I’m not going to buy you lunch, friend, until after I see you perform,” Dasheway informed the man.

“Fine. Hey, this really is a cafeteria.”