He meditated on it again after he hustled the girl he had dubbed Princess Sinanchu into his waiting limousine. He ordered the driver to take them to Newark International Airport, where his chartered Learfan jet awaited. With any luck, they'd be in the air before the police got organized.
After that, Shane Billiken had no idea what he was going to do. True, he told himself, he was not culpable for what had happened on The Horton Droney III Show. The whole nation could attest to that. But the police were likely to arrest Princess Sinanchu-or whatever her actual name was-and Shane Billiken wasn't about to let his meal ticket languish in jail.
Better to make a break for the Coast, where celebrity misadventures were swept under the rug every week. Let the lawyers handle it. New York was just too damn unevolved.
The Learfan was in the air less than thirty minutes after they had bolted from the Manhattan studio. Shane Billiken breathed a sigh of relief. Princess Sinanchu sat in the rear of the plane, her tawny face angry, her eyes blazing like dark jewels as they stared out into the night sky.
No, this was not what Shane Billiken had wanted to do with his life. There was another way, a better way. And if only his life had gone in that direction, he'd be happier, and probably still have the same Malibu beachfront home, fat bank account, and a hell of a lot younger groupies than he had now.
If only Roy the Boy would just lie down and die.
As Shane Billiken saw it, only a rock-and-roll dinosaur stood between him and a full calendar of yearly concert bookings.
Long before Shane Billiken knew a tarot deck from macrobiotic onion, he had been lead singer in a band called the Rockabilly Rockets. They had a meteoric career at the beginning of 1963. They crashed to earth like a bollid.
The Rockabilly Rockets had everything going for them. A sound, described by Variety as doo-wop folk, trademark three-cornered hats, a hit single, and a record contract with a major label.
Then the Beatles hit New York and the Rockabilly Rockets' debut album, The Rockabilly Rockets Live at the Hootenanny, made recording history. It shipped tin. It went directly from the pressing room to the cut-out bins.
"What happened?" Shane Billiken had demanded of his personal manager. He kneaded his Paul Revere hat in nervous fingers.
"Look at it this way, Shane, baby, you made music history. Nobody's ever shipped tin before."
"You swore we'd go platinum overnight. I'd settle for gold. But tin!"
"Don't blame me, blame those shaggy-headed Brit pansies."
And Shane Billiken did. He held a bitter news conference, fired his band, and spent the early sixties bouncing around in restaurant dishwasher jobs. He was a poet with a broken heart.
It was in 1968 that Shane noticed the world was changing. The Beatles had gone psychedelic. Everyone was into astrology. And Zen. And higher consciousness. Especially the groupies. It was the Age of Aquarius.
Shane Billiken bought a stack of used books on mysticism at a head shop and decided that maybe he'd get in on the action. He worked carnivals and private parties in the beginning. It was a good life, and gradually he forgot his bitterness. Even the slump in the late seventies, when everyone suddenly decided the sixties were passe, was not so tough. Shane had put a lot of his money into stocks. He did well.
Then came the eighties. Suddenly the fifties and sixties were hot again. Old rockers were crawling out of the woodwork, working the nostalgia circuit. And Shane Billiken, energized from attending a Righteous Brothers reunion concert, returned to his Southern California home and dug out his old Ovation guitar.
Standing in front of the mirror, his ax hanging off one shoulder, and strumming an old I-VI-IV-V-I chord progression, he noticed that his pushing-fifty face had gotten puffy. He put on a pair of wraparound sunglasses to see if it would take the curse off him, and lo and behold, he made a wonderful discovery.
He looked almost exactly like the great Roy Orbison. Especially when he combed his hair into a kind of Julius Caesar pageboy-bang effect.
Shane experimented with a few bars of "Only the Lonely," and inspiration hit him. The woods were full of Elvis Presley impersonators living off the bones of the King. Hell, almost every overweight singer who could curl his lip was cashing in. Why not Shane Billiken?
He convinced the owner of an Agoura discotheque to book him for a weekend as Roy Orbit Sun. Both nights sold out in advance, and Shane Billiken knew he had found his way at last.
The night of his first set, he waited for the warm-up act to finish. He was sweating so had, even his Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses were beading up.
"Relax," said the club manager. "You're gonna be dynamite. You sound just like the guy."
"I haven't done this in a few years. Are my shades on straight?"
"You'll do fine. In fact, there are a couple of suits in the front row. Look like talent scouts to me. What are you gonna open with?"
" 'Running Scared,' " said Shane Billiken, his teeth chattering.
"Good choice," said the manager. "Fitting."
"Then I'm gonna seque into 'Blue Angel,' shift up to 'Ooby Dooby,' and then do 'Oh, Pretty Woman.' "
"If you hit, I'm gonna want you to play every weekend for the next three months."
"If I hit, you'll have to talk to my agent about that."
"You told me you didn't have an agent."
"If I hit, I'm getting one."
"Don't get too big for your britches, pal. Try not to forget I'm the guy who's giving you your big break." Shane Billiken was about to say something when the MC announced the world premiere of the hottest performer since the fifties, Roy Orbit Sun, and Shane Billiken clumped out on the stage.
He fired up a rocking rendition of "Running Scared," forgot the words midway through the soulful "Blue Angel," and switched over to "Crying Over You," which he was saving for the first encore. The crowd was with him from the third bar of "Crying Over You."
Unfortunately, so were the two suits who happened to be sitting in the front row. They jumped onstage and tried to hand Shane Billiken an official-looking envelope.
"It's over," one of them said.
"I'm saving that one for the second set," Shane Billiken hissed as he launched into an improvised guitar solo. "And I don't do requests. So get off the stage. "
"We represent Roy Orbison. The original. And this is a cease-and-desist order. You can change acts right now, or you can see us in court."
"But, but-"
"Better decide fast, friend," the other man said.
"Screw you," snarled Shane Billiken. And then he was singing "Crryyiiiing Oooover Yooouuuuuu."
One of the suits snapped his fingers and a pair of plainclothes cops hustled Shane Billiken off the stage to a chorus of boos and catcalls.
Shane Billiken barely made bail that night. At the trial, faced with a battery of high-powered lawyers, his own attorney suggested that he plead no contest. Shane Billiken reluctantly agreed, and they made him sign a paper in which he promised that he would never steal Roy Orbison's act again.
Once more Shane Billiken's career in music had hit a brick wall.
If anything, he grew more embittered. A zillion Elvis Presley impersonators were making individual fortunes and everyone knew that any warbler with a bay window and a spit curl could impersonate the King. But mimicking Roy Orbison, with his high, haunting bel canto tenor-that took skill.
For a time, Shane Billiken flirted with the idea of having Roy the Boy whacked. He went so far as to initiate contact with a hit man. But at the last minute he chickened out. It was too risky. Besides, how long could Orbison go on? Almost all of his contemporaries were dropping like flies from drugs or booze or some damn thing.
Shane Billiken decided to wait the guy out. How long could it take? And so he returned to his former trade. But by this time mysticism was no longer the province of dippy girls in tent dresses and guys with earrings. Now it belonged to the yuppies and the housewives. The Age of Aquarius was over. It was the New Age.
Once he got into
the swing of it, Shane Billiken found that by working the exclusive-clientele angle, he could make ten times the money for one-twentieth the effort. Meantime, he practiced his singing in the shower.
A limo was waiting for him at LAX airport. Shane hustled the princess into the back. She spat at him. Some days she was touchy. Like the last time he tried to get into her pants. He hadn't been as much interested in that as he had been in getting another look at those silvery coins of hers. She guarded them jealously. She even slept with them, which was more than she did for the man who fed and clothed her and got her on talk shows all over the nation, thought Shane Billiken bitterly.
Even months after he had first taken her under his wing, after a battery of linguists had assured him to his own surprise that her language was not merely unidentified, but bore no linguistic resemblance to any tongue known to the modern world, Shane Billiken still had no idea where Princess Sinanchu came from. She resisted all his efforts to teach her English.
All he knew was that if no one could understand what she was saying, no one could possibly disprove his claim that she was the avatar of Princess Sinanchu of Atlantis.
For all he knew, it was true.
Returning to his house, Shane Billiken instructed Fernando, his Filipino valet, that he was not home.
"And I don't mean not home to visitors or callers, I mean not home. As far as you know, I'm in New York. Got that?"
"Yes, Mr. Billiken."
"And lock the princess in her room. She's been acting up again."
"Yes, Mr. Billiken," said the valet, gently but firmly taking Princess Sinanchu by the arm and escorting her to her room. He locked it, thinking that it was a shame that such an attractive woman should be a virtual prisoner in this house. But he dared say nothing to the authorities. He was an illegal alien himself and Shane Billiken constantly held the threat of deportation over his head.
When the doorbell rang hours later, Fernando was afraid to answer it. Mr. Billiken had ordered him to get his lawyer on the phone and then had ordered him out of the room while he took the call. Fernando was afraid that he had called the immigration authorities. He feared them.
But not as much as he feared his master. So when Mr. Billiken had yelled at him to answer the "freaking door," Fernando wiped the palm sweat on the side of his black pants and straightened his white housecoat properly.
They were not immigration authorities at the door, he was relieved to see. Not unless they had an international force. The white man wore a T-shirt and slacks. There was an Asian man, very old, who wore a kimono. No, not Immigration, Fernando thought with relief.
"We're here to see Shane Billiken," the white one said simply.
"Mr. Billiken not home."
"I didn't say he was. We're willing to wait." And the white man breezed in. The Oriental started to follow, but Fernando tried to shut the door in his face.
The door, instead, kept on going. The knob flew out of Fernando's stung hand. It sailed over the tiny Oriental's head and hit the driveway like a fallen tree.
Fernando stepped aside quickly to let the Oriental pass. "What's that noise?" demanded Shane Billiken from the den.
Fernando looked sheepish when the white man turned and shot an accusing glare at him.
"Not in, huh?" Fernando shrugged.
Shane Billiken took one look at the fruity-looking man and the old Oriental's saffron costume and said, "If you're here for the Harmonic Convergence Open House, you're too late. That was last month."
"We're not," the white man said.
"Then who are you'?" Shane demanded. "Not cops?"
"No, not cops," the white said.
"Lawyers, then. Process servers?"
"Interested parties."
"Yeah. What are you interested in?"
The old Oriental spoke up then. His voice was low and reserved. He was an Eastern type in a robe. Probably some fakir or something.
"We wish to speak with her highness."
"About what?"
"It is a matter that concerns her house and my house."
"Yeah, well, this is my house, and I have a right to know what your business is."
"Don't look at me," the skinny one said. "I've been trying to pry it out of him for hours."
"Fernando, get rid of them," Shane Billiken ordered. Behind the two, Shane Billiken noticed Fernando pointing at the open door. He kept pointing. Shane blinked. He noticed the door was not there. Then he saw a corner of it lying out in the circular driveway. The corner was splintered.
"Hey, what'd you do to my door?" he demanded.
"Let us see the princess and we won't do a repeat demonstration on every door in the place," the white man said.
Shane Billiken hesitated. Then he said, "Okay, c'mon into the Crystal Room."
The pair followed him into a room adjoining the den. It was decorated in early psychedelic. The ceiling was a flat black. The walls were covered with astrological signs. Shane Billiken hit a light switch and black light tubes mounted flush to the ceiling made the astrology symbols jump into Day-Glo orange.
The old Oriental looked about the room approvingly. "You consult the stars?" he inquired.
"I'm one of the foremost astrological technicians of the New Age."
"Perhaps when we have concluded our discussion, you will cast my chart."
"Sure. I do it all the time. What's your sign?"
"Leo. I am a Leo by Western reckoning. But according to the ways of my village, I was born in the Year of the Screeching Monkey."
"Oh, yeah? That's a long time ago. I think."
"There are older things. I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju."
"Sinanju. Not Sinanchu?" said Shane Billiken suspiciously.
"In some lands, it is pronounced Sinanchu."
"Yeah, what lands?"
"Moo."
"Say again?"
"Moo."
"I guess this is where the animal impressions start," the white said. "My name's Remo, by the way, and I don't know what's going on any more than you do."
"Your ignorance, I am used to," Chiun told Remo. "But I do not understand how this enlightened one does not understand of what I speak."
"Him? Enlightened? This place looks like a sixties hangout."
"This is my Crystal Room," said Shane Billiken. "I do all my deep meditations here. If you look around you, you'll see that embedded into the walls are tiny crystal generators. They act to focus the odyllic energy that flows through the universe into this nexus room."
Remo looked. Embedded in the stucco wall were tiny shards. Remo touched one.
"These feel like glass."
"Crystals. Adventurine."
"Looks like glass to me. And now that I see you in person, you remind me of someone."
Shane Billiken puffed up his chest proudly. "Is that so?" he remarked.
"Yeah, but I can't place the face. I used to be good with faces. "
"This give you a hint?" asked Shane, strumming on an imaginary guitar. He threw his head back as if singing. Remo rubbed his chin in thought. Finally he snapped his fingers and called out, "Elvis. Elvis Presley."
"No! Roy Orbison."
Remo frowned. "Did he die too?"
"I wish," Shane Billiken growled.
"Enough," Chiun said. "Let us get on with this. Explain to me, Shane Billiken, how you are ignorant of Moo when I saw you in the company of the Low Moo on television."
"Low Moo?" Remo and Shane Billiken asked in the same breath.
"Yes, the girl. Her highness. You spoke of her as the princess of a lost civilization. She obviously told you that."
"Yeah, she did. Sorta."
"Then you know her plight."
"Well, kinda."
"And even though she entreated you to take her to the Master of Sinanju, you forbore to do so."
"I for-what to do so?"
"He means you refused," Remo said, new interest in his face.
"What do you know about this?"
"Less than nothing," R
emo said sourly.
"I demand to speak with the Low Moo," said Chiun. "Take us to her."
"You're not cops?"
"We represent the longest continuing line of true assassins in history," the old Oriental said proudly.
"Hey, it's cool," Shane said nervously. "I'm very nonjudgmental. It's like I always say: Be the best you can possibly be. But let's all get clear on one concept. Princess Sinanchu doesn't speak English. If I let you see her, I'm gonna have to translate every word she says."
"Not necessary," said Chiun loftily. "I speak her language as well as you."
"You do?"
"Yes."
The old Oriental sounded serious, and Shane Billiken hesitated momentarily. But if what he said was true, he'd probably be able to tell him who or what Princess Sinanchu really was. Not that Shane Billiken believed the old Oriental. He was acting pretty crazy, making barnyard sounds and spouting double-talk.
"Okay," he said at last. "Come with me."
Shane Billiken led Remo and Chiun to another room. It was a bedroom. He switched on the light and the girl blinked out of her sleep. She wore the same costume she had worn on TV. Her eyes were puffy-either from lack of sleep or tears, Remo decided.
"Princess Sinanchu," said Shane Billiken in a self-important voice, "I bring visitors who say they know you." Princess Sinanchu sat up on the edge of the bed. Her eyes went to the old Oriental. He spoke. Her mouth opened like a surprised flower. She began speaking.
"Juilli do Banda Sinanchu?"
The old Oriental stepped up to the bedside and inclined his balding head in respect.
"Let me translate that," said Shane Billiken. "She said that she is Princess Sinanchu, of the lost continent of Atlantis. "
The Oriental whirled on him suddenly.
"What lies are these? Are you deaf? She just asked me if I am the Master of Sinanju. Now, still your false tongue. This is a historic moment."
And Chiun faced the girl again. He spoke. To Shane Billiken's surprise, his words sounded very much like the girl's. The same inflections and accents.
"Do juty da Banda Sinanchu," he said firmly.
The girl rose from the bed and, sobbing, poured out a torrent of words. She pulled the leather pouch from under her costume and spilled the coins at the old Oriental's sandaled feet.
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