Fade to Black td-119

by Warren Murphy

  He was moving too fast to even vomit. Centrifugal force kept his bile-charged food in his stomach.

  It seemed that he was spinning forever. After an eternity of twirling, the blurs around him finally began to coalesce back into recognizable shapes.

  Quintly dangled woozily above the ground. Distant buildings rolled in waves.

  "Not that I should really care one way or the other about his stupid movie deal," Remo continued without missing a beat. "Smith'll find out sooner or later."

  Remo was still holding Tortilli's necklaces. The chains bit into the director's neck. His face was purple.

  "Ghhhhkkhhhh..." Tortilli gagged. The choking pressure made his head feel it was about to burst. Vomit was trapped in his throat at a point just below the gold knot.

  "What?" Remo asked, annoyed.

  "Ggggg ..." Tortilli begged.

  "Oh. Save it for after the return trip," Remo advised.

  Another swat to the shoulder. Tortilli felt himself spinning back in the opposite direction. The pressure at his neck lessened as the chains uncoiled. In less than thirty seconds, he'd twirled back to the starting point.

  "Now," Remo said, dropping the reeling director to his feet, "same question as before. Cabbagehead's backers. And this time, try to limit gratuitous use of the F word."

  Quintly's answer was distinctly nonverbal. Grabbing his stomach, the director doubled over. He promptly vomited the churning contents of his stomach onto the pavement. Bile and half-digested Cocoa Puffs splattered the outdoor set.

  "Ew!" shrieked an appalled actress, whose naked torso was decorated with oozing rubber stab wounds. Quintly had discovered her behind the counter of a local pharmacy. Long legs smeared with artificial blood recoiled from the vomit.

  "Darn," Remo complained. "I always forget the second part."

  As Tortilli continued to heave, Remo reached out and pressed two fingers against a spot behind his left ear.

  The director's throat froze in midvomit.

  At Remo's touch, the retch caught in Tortilli's throat. He waited for a second, expecting it to come. It didn't. Not only that, but the desire to vomit was gone.

  Panting, he looked around. The fuzzy world was beginning to take firmer shape. As he swallowed a gulp of sticky saliva, the bitter tang of bile burning in his mouth, one word croaked up his raw throat. "Schoenburg," Tortilli hissed.

  "Huh?" Remo asked.

  "Schoenburg's a Cabbagehead backer." Tortilli's voice grew stronger. "He's one of the biggest." He massaged his neck where the links from his chains had bitten into flesh. A flash of misplaced enthusiasm sparked in his bugging eyes. "Man, that was some trip."

  "Stefan Schoenburg?" Remo asked. "The director?"

  Tortilli nodded. "And George Locutus. Damn, you're strong. But you don't even look it. Can you do that thing again?" he asked hopefully. A long finger twirled the air.

  Remo ignored him.

  Stefan Schoenburg was arguably the most famous director in the history of film. And George Locutus was one of the most successful producers. Together, these two men nearly had a lock on the top-ten most profitable movies of all time. It didn't make sense that they'd have anything to do with a backwater company like Cabbagehead.

  "Those two guys must be multimultimillionaires," Remo said. "What do they want with a dippy operation like this?"

  "That's nothing," Tortilli boasted. "They're just the two biggest investors. There are dozens more." Tortilli quickly rattled off a few more names. If they weren't immediately familiar, most at least tweaked at the back of Remo's consciousness. Since he wasn't exactly up on all things Hollywood, they had to be famous. The Cabbagehead backers list was like a Who's Who of filmdom.

  "Don't they make enough with their own bad movies without leeching off other people's?" Remo said. "What are they doing here?"

  "Prestige," Tortilli explained. "Schoenburg was a box-office king for two decades but he wasn't happy till he finally got an Oscar. All of those guys are the same. Some want their first award, some want their tenth. That's Hollywood. It's all about the statue, baby."

  Remo frowned. No matter how cutthroat the movie industry might be, he doubted that a man like Schoenburg would kill to extend his fame. That left few other options.

  "Do you know of anybody who might have a grudge against the company? A fired employee? Maybe someone who actually paid good money to see one of your movies?"

  "I don't handle that shi-" Quintly paused. After Remo's F word comment, he wasn't sure if another curse might incur his assailant's wrath. "That stuff. I'm creative."

  "Tell that to somebody who didn't see your big hit."

  Tortilli bristled. Then he remembered who he was talking to. "All the critics agreed Penny Dreadful was a great movie," Quintly pointed out meekly.

  "It was a lot of great movies," Remo agreed. "I counted about ten before I pulled the tape out the VCR and heaved it out the window. And that was only in the first twenty minutes. You make a guy like Schoenburg look creative."

  Skipping around the director, Remo headed back for his rental car. To Remo's great irritation, Tortilli hurried to keep pace with him.

  "You've killed people, haven't you?" Tortilli ventured abruptly, bug eyes growing crafty.

  "Not today," Remo replied sweetly.

  "Wow! You're a real-life natural born killer!" Tortilli shouted, jumping with enthusiasm. "Man, that's so cool."

  "I never said that," Remo said, glancing over his shoulder. The people back at the pathetic movie set hadn't heard. Most of the actors were already gone. Judging by their pupils, the apathetic attitude of those actors and crew that remained was chemical in nature.

  "You didn't have to say it, man," Tortilli continued, his voice enthusiastic. "It's written on your face. In your eyes. Man, those are the deadest eyes I've ever seen."

  As they walked, Tortilli began reaching toward Remo's face. Remo slapped the hands away. "Wowee! I didn't even see you move," Tortilli squealed, his tone a mixture of excitement and awe.

  "Keep watching."

  Remo doubled his pace. Tortilli jogged up beside him.

  "You know, you never asked me if I, you know, actually knew the killers," the director said slyly from Remo's elbow.

  Remo stopped dead. The killer's eyes that Tortilli had so admired a moment before became as frigid and menacing as the icy depths of space. "Talk fast," he said coldly.

  Quintly registered his tone with some alarm. "I'm not sure I actually do," the director said quickly, raising his hands defensively. "I just hear talk sometimes. I didn't tell the cops, 'cause I don't trust them. But I trust you. Killers are always a lot more trustworthy than regular stiffs. It's a recurring theme in my movies. I can steer the way if you don't mind the most brilliant director in the history of film riding shotgun."

  Remo considered this for a moment. He hated to admit it, but Tortilli could be helpful.

  With a resigned sigh, he reached out and grabbed a cluster of Quintly Tortilli's chains. "If your voice gets any louder than your clothes, you're riding in the roof rack," he warned.

  Pulling the director like a dog at the end of a leash, Remo headed for his rental car.

  Chapter 4

  His head was little more than a skull covered with a barren sheet of ancient parchment pulled taut. Gossamer tufts of yellowing-white hair above shelllike ears bobbed appreciatively with every birdlike movement of his neck.

  Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, the most ancient house of assassins on the face of the planet, was being given a tour of his movie's soundstage.

  The finishing touches had been put on the various sets weeks before. To the tiny Korean in his triumphant saffron kimono, they all looked authentic. And beautiful.

  "All of the interiors are being shot on this stage," Hank Bindle said to the beaming figure at his side.

  "What of locations?" Chiun asked, adding knowingly, "This is a term I have heard many times. It is when a movie goes outside. My film takes place largely in the prov
ince of New York in the filthy city of the same name."

  "We've got a New York mock-up on a back lot here at Taurus," Bruce Marmelstein explained.

  "We've already gotten some pretty good shots there."

  "But we've shot in New York already, too," Hank Bindle said to his partner, the cochair of Taurus and the studio's business-affairs manager. Bindle was the creative member of the team. "That part of production wrapped two weeks ago."

  "That's right," Marmelstein agreed. "We're all set there."

  "Maybe a little second-unit stuff," Bindle cautioned.

  Marmelstein turned to his partner. "This late? Did the A.D. tell you that?"

  "This morning."

  "That's gonna cut into time and production costs."

  "Not my department," Hank Bindle said with indifference.

  The Master of Sinanju wasn't listening to their insane prattle. The two of them talked incessantly without ever saying anything. After a trip to the men's room, they could sometimes blabber for hours nonstop. At least until the sniffling wore off.

  "Two weeks," Chiun trilled. The very air around him seemed alive with joy. "Then it is nearly complete."

  Neither Bindle nor Marmelstein disputed the assertion.

  Chiun's shoulders shuddered visibly as he considered the implications of completed location work. His dream was that much closer to fruition.

  He was a wizened figure who appeared to be as old as time itself. Anyone meeting him for the first time invariably assumed him to be nothing more than a frail old man. Bindle and Marmelstein knew better, which was why the cochairs of Taurus Studios were willing to take time out of their schedules to give a personal tour to the lowly screenwriter.

  "The squad room," Hank Bindle pronounced. He swept his hand to the left.

  The interior of a New York police precinct had been reproduced in meticulous detail. All that was missing was the ceiling and the side wall through which they now looked.

  Chiun's radiant face beamed pure joy. "It is as if my words have come to life," he enthused, hazel eyes tearing.

  "Chiun, baby, didn't you know? We're in the business of making magic," Bruce Marmelstein confided.

  The three men walked onto the set. Paper-strewn desks were arranged haphazardly around the room. Behind the desks sat actors dressed in the familiar blue of the New York City Police Department.

  Chiun frowned as they walked between a pair of desks. The two men nearest him seemed bored. They stared blankly into space. The phones atop their desks were silent.

  The old Korean stopped so abruptly Bindle and Marmelstein almost plowed into him. The Master of Sinanju appraised the two men a moment before turning back to the studio cochairs, his wizened face perturbed.

  "I do not believe these two are constables," he intoned.

  "Constables?" Marmelstein whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  "Cops," explained Bindle, sotto voce.

  "Oh," Marmelstein said aloud. "Well, that's 'cause they're not contribbles. They're just actors."

  "Actors?" Bindle scoffed. "Not even. They're just extras. Walking props."

  Chiun turned back to the nearest man. The uniformed extra had been drawn from his boredom by the conversation. He looked up to find the three men hovering above his desk. He seemed uncomfortable at the attention.

  "I-I am Juilliard-trained," the man offered, knowing he had been insulted but not wishing to upset the studio heads.

  "Give me your diploma," Bindle snorted. "I have to go to the can." He snorted loudly, glancing to his partner for support. Marmelstein choked at Bindle's wit.

  The Master of Sinanju ignored the idiots. He tipped his head to one side, as if listening for something. After a moment, he reached a single long finger toward the actor. His nail-like a sharpened talon-pressed into the muscled shoulder of the man.

  The flesh beneath the uniform was warm. Frowning, Chiun spun from the confused young man.

  "This is not a prop," Chiun said. "It lives."

  "Barely," Marmelstein mocked. "Uncredited, nonspeaking, union-scale drone. He might as well have a tattoo on his head saying, 'Hi, I'm the least important thing in this picture. Ignore me.'"

  The young actor seemed crushed by the harsh assessment.

  "It is being compensated for its time here?" the Master of Sinanju demanded. "Compen-whazzat?" Marmelstein asked Bindle. This time Hank was at a loss, too. Most four-syllable words that weren't the names of prescription drugs were beyond him.

  "Paid," the seated actor supplied.

  "Ohhh," Bindle and Marmelstein nodded in unison.

  "Of course it's being paid," Manmelstein continued. "The union would have all our asses on a silver platter if we didn't pay the scene fillers."

  Chiun crossed his arms over his tiny chest. "If it receives remuneration, why is it indolent?"

  "Union-mandated break," Bindle explained. The young man was growing more and more perturbed as the conversation went on. With his acting skills, it was bad enough accepting a nonspeaking role to begin with. But to be continually referred to as little more than a chair or a mop was too much.

  "Excuse me, sirs," the actor sniffed haughtily, "but I am a human being, not an 'it.'"

  Sitting at his desk, arms crossed, face a mask of self-righteous anger, the young man almost dared the three of them to dispute him. He expected an argument. He expected more verbal abuse. He expected to be fired on the spot. He did not, however, expect what happened next.

  The hand flashed out faster than any of their eyes could follow. Five bony fingers smacked with an audible crack into the back of the actor's head. The man's teeth came alive. They clattered like rattling dice inside his mouth. A filling in one molar popped out from the vibrations. And with that wash of sudden, blinding pain, all thoughts of self-righteous actor's anger died a Method death.

  The Master of Sinanju wasn't even looking at the man he had just struck. It was as if the actor didn't exist.

  "This brotherhood you speak of," Chiun said to the Taurus cochairs, "who are they that they would dare meddle in my wondrous production?"

  Bindle and Marmelstein frowned in unison. "He means union," the seated actor offered timidly. Fingers and tongue searched his mouth for his AWOL filling.

  "Oh, the union. Everything's union in this town," Bruce Marmelstein explained. "Bastards tell us what to do and what to pay everybody. Hell, they practically time the shitting schedule." His brow furrowed, genuinely confused. "But you must have joined the screenwriters' union."

  "Ixnay, ixntay, " Bindle whispered to his partner.

  "Ah, this is familiar to me." Chiun nodded, remembering now an early conversation he'd had with Hank Bindle about his union membership.

  "Mr. Chiun doesn't believe in unions, Bruce," Bindle whispered.

  "Of course not," Chiun sniffed. "A Master of Sinanju does not pay dues. He accepts tribute."

  "I admire your integrity." Hank Bindle nodded.

  "In-gritty what?" Marmelstein asked his partner. The definition of the unfamiliar word was never explained to the Taurus financial expert. Kimono swirling, the Master of Sinanju spun away from the two executives.

  "You!" Chiun announced, aiming an imperious finger at the man he'd just assaulted. "Resume your work! "

  The Juilliard graduate wasn't sure exactly what was expected of him. But his skull was still reverberating from the blow Chiun had struck. Flinging his filling to the floor, he grabbed up the prop phone from his desk. His weak smile sought approval.

  But Chiun was no longer there. The old Korean had already whirled on to the next extra.

  "Return to your duties, player!"

  When the confused young actor hesitated, the Master of Sinanju's hand found a cluster of nerves at the small of his back. To the extra, it felt as if someone had poured boiling acid down his spine. Screaming, the man leaped obediently for his own desk.

  The commotion brought the attention of everyone on the set. Chiun stormed into their midst.

  "Hark, unimportant
playactors!" he intoned to the gathered extras. "You are charged with the awesome task of breathing life into a story written by me! A more glorious duty you will never have in your pitiful lives of make-believe. Therefore, you will allow this joy and honor to sustain you, breakless, throughout the duration of filming."

  There was muttering from the crowd.

  Most of the actors merely seemed confused. A burly man at Chiun's elbow who understood exactly what was being said tapped the Master of Sinanju on the shoulder. His beefy face wore a surly expression.

  "Or what?" he challenged.

  Later he swore he'd gotten both words out before he became airborne. Most of the other extras told him he only got as far as the first syllable before he went sailing over their heads.

  The rest of the cast and crew watched in shock as the 240-pound extra sailed over the mock-up walls of their squad room. He landed with a heavy thud somewhere distant. Judging by the ensuing hail of shrimp and finger sandwiches, he'd touched down in the vicinity of the craft-services tables.

  As food rained down, the men and women on the set nearly plowed over one another in their haste to return to work. The soundstage exploded in a frenzy of activity. For the first time since Chiun's arrival, it looked like an actual police station. Standing amid the chaos, the old man beamed proudly over at Bindle and Marmelstein, who were standing near the edge of the set.

  When Chiun looked away, Bindle elbowed Marmelstein in the ribs.

  "What do we do?" Hank Bindle muttered nervously. His lips didn't move. Though his heart raced excitedly, he dared not even smile.

  Bruce Marmelstein was equally unemotional. "We shut up and tell the A.D. to roll 'em," he whispered in reply. "This production is finally back on track."

  Plastering on the phoniest toothy smile he could muster, Marmelstein strode across the chaotic set to the Master of Sinanju. Hank Bindle trotted to keep up.

  Chapter 5

  "I don't know if I know anything," Quintly Tortilli cautioned. As they drove through Seattle's suburban streets, a light mist collected sullenly on the windshield.