No Contest

When they reached the village again, the work on the hogan was at a halt and the meager population of the village was gathering. They knew about the latest spy device. They didn’t understand it, and that made them afraid.

Sunny Joe Roam didn’t like having fear brought to his people

When Sunny Joe had come back to the reservation years ago he found his people on the verge of extinction. A disease had killed off many of them, and there were no children. Any old man, especially an old Sunny Joe, needed to hear the laughter of children—it was the sound of life. When the plague was eradicated, Sunny Joe encouraged his people to bring new life into the reservation. There were new wives, many of them wooed on the Navajo reservation up north, and now there was the sound of children.

Sunny Joe Roam never wanted to feel the fear and the hopelessness that had sickened the air of the reservation once, not too long ago. He would not allow it.

“Sunny Joe, why’s this being done to us?” one of his old friends asked.

“You hold your tongue for a little while, Horse Mouth. I’m going to see about something I can do.”

“Sunny Joe,” Horse Mouth said more quietly, “does somebody mean us harm?”

Sunny Joe couldn’t answer that question, and everybody just got more scared.

The blue phone rang. Smith took it, expecting Chiun.

It wasn’t Chiun.

“Hello, Dr. Harold W. Smith of Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, who is also the head honcho of a supersecret government agency called CURE.”

Smith felt his heart leap into his throat. “Remo, what are you doing?”

‘Yes, it is me, Remo Williams, a former New Jersey policeman who was framed for a murder he did not commit, then drafted into the organization called CURE. What I am doing is trying out my new cell phone. It seems to be working pretty well.”

“Where are you?”

“Where am I, Dr. Harold Winston Smith of Rye, New York? I am in Hollywood on the Walk of Fame. I came here to perform some vandalism. It’s just one of the ways I’m taking out my anger. Guess who I am angry at, Dr. Harold W. Smith?”

“Are there people around?”

“Lots of people. Here’s someone now. What’s your name, honey? Travistah? Nice name. Nice outfit. I’m talking to my friend Harold in Rye, New York. He’s with CURE. What? Quite a bargain, but no thanks.”

Smith wanted to hang up, but was certain that would make things worse, not better. “Travistah left. She wanted me to give her money to keep talking to her, Dr. Harold W. Smith,” Remo explained. His voice was modulated to carry far. “So, anyway, I thought I would give you a call and talk about how angry I am. I hope it doesn’t bother you if all these people listen in.”

“This is ludicrous, Remo,” Smith said, for want of something better to say.

“Ludicrous? Naw, I’ll tell you what’s ludicrous—Alan Hale Sr. gets a star on the walk of fame, but Alan Hale Jr.? Nowhere to be found. They snubbed the Skipper and that’s just wrong.”

Was this relevant? Smith couldn’t recall Alan Hale Jr. In what films was he the leading man? How did it have a bearing on any of this?

“Another thing that’s just wrong is you spying on my family. I thought I made that clear. Or did Mrs. M mix up the message?”

“She delivered the message. I chose to ignore it.”

“Hold on.” Remo lowered the phone, but Smith could still hear every word perfectly. “Hi, Officer. Sorry for being so loud. I’m talking to a very old man who doesn’t listen well. Maybe you’ve heard of him, Dr. Harold Winston Smith of Rye, New York? He pretends to be the man in charge of Folcroft Sanitarium, but really he’s the head of this assassination arm of the U.S. government called CURE. Okay, I’ll try to keep it down.” Remo came back on the line. “Cop thought I was bonkers. Okay, he’s gone now. As I was saying…”

“You don’t need to continue this,” Smith said. “Don’t sweat it. Nobody believes me. They think I’m some crazy screenwriter. Maybe next time I’ll go somewhere they’ll believe me. You know, some TV news show or something. Now, did you understand that message?”

“Yes,” Smith said tightly.

The connection was severed. The automatic tracing system had it pinned down to a newly activated mobile phone that was, indeed, in Hollywood, California. The phone disappeared from the system a moment later, as if it had ceased to exist.

“Thank God you showed up!” Olaf Dasheway shouted. “You’re late, you know. Three minutes.” He brandished his wristwatch.

“I’m on time. Your watch is wrong. Okay, let’s do this thing.”

The producer glared at him. “You ready to lose the nose wig?”

“Nope.”

“Please.”

“Nope.”

Dasheway sighed. “It’s gonna look kind of silly.”

“So sell it,” Remo said with a shrug. “Tonight at nine—how can a guy this dorky looking get such fabulous babes?”

The producer considered that. “Maybe. You ready to work your magic?”

“Ready,” Remo said.

Chapter 18

The first episode of The Ladies’ Man was in the can.

Olaf Dasheway called all the networks for the screening.

“I’m gonna work this like nothing you ever saw before,” the producer told Remo as show time approached.