Fade to Black td-119

by Warren Murphy

  That was when Quintly Tortilli was at the top of his game. But the fire that he thought would never go out soon threatened to be extinguished. And with it, his career.

  Without something to promote, the talk-show circuit eventually dried up. His acting was universally panned. The films he produced were all box-office bombs.

  Actors could coast for years on just a little box-office success. The young genius of Penny Dreadful found that forgiveness didn't extend to directors.

  The truth was Quintly Tortilli needed a hit. Badly. But few respectable offers came in.

  As his bank account dwindled, Tortilli found that he needed something even more basic than a hit.

  He needed a job. Of course, he always had his script-doctor income, but lately even the paychecks for that were shrinking. A high-profile directing job could pump his asking price back up into the stratosphere. When word came from Taurus Studios that Tortilli was wanted to direct the next Die Down sequel, he had accepted without hesitation.

  There were troubles from the start.

  First, Lance Wallace didn't want to do it. He claimed he had said everything he wanted to say with his lone-cop character in the first three films. A twenty-two-million-dollar paycheck and gross points changed the actor's tune, but his salary cut seriously into the film's budget.

  The script offered Tortilli another challenge. The original Die Down formula had been copied so many times that the new chapter threatened to cover the same ground all over again. Quintly's harshest critics had always claimed he didn't have an original thought in his ego-swelled head. He had to do something different with his comeback film.

  To this end, somewhere during their earliest script discussions, Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelstein had brought Quintly a script by an unknown writer. The Taurus cochairs had insisted that their discovery was absolutely super-talented and that Quintly absolutely had to use his script even if he had to change everything in it to do so. As they sang the praises of their new screenwriter, the two men were sweating visibly.

  When Quintly resisted, Bindle and Marmelstein had insisted. Since this was long before the Regency or the failed attempt to destroy Taurus Studios, and the blackmail opportunities they presented, Quintly, unable financially to walk away from the project, had accepted the novice screenwriter's story.

  Over the course of the next few months, Tortilli changed so much in the original script that it was unrecognizable.

  When the script changes were mentioned to the Taurus cochairs, both Bindle and Marmelstein were afraid that their screenwriter might object.

  "You're worried about a writer?" Tortilli had asked.

  "We're worried about this writer," Bindle replied.

  "But he's a writer," Tortilli argued. "They're just ...well ...writers. No one in this town worries about writers."

  "You've never met him," Marmelstein said uneasily.

  "And I'm gonna keep it that way," Tortilli said. And he had. All through the rewrites, he avoided the crazy old man. In fact-much to Bindle's and Marmelstein's relief-the writer stayed away straight through the final change in which the stolen-ship ending was jettisoned. When Lance Wallace finished up his work on the film, Tortilli had booked it to Seattle, just in time to avoid meeting Mr. Chiun. He let Arlen Duggal take the heat from the famously ill-tempered screenwriter.

  Once in Seattle, Tortilli not only began work on the independent film he was doing for Cabbagehead Productions, but he completed the behind-the-scenes arrangements that would ensure financial solvency for the rest of his life.

  Tortilli was just one of the many well-known Hollywood backers of Cabbagehead. He had bought his interest in the studio back in his post-Penny Dreadful heyday, when it seemed the money would never run out.

  No one else worried about the success of the studio. Indeed, most of the backers had probably forgotten all about it. It was only something that their accountants fretted over when tallying up their strategic losses at tax time. If Cabbagehead had a hit, great. If not, big deal. Tortilli was the only one who had genuine financial concerns. And he turned those concerns into action.

  It was surprisingly easy for the director to segue from fictional murder to the real thing.

  At first, his fan mail had pointed the way. Those who skulked beyond society's fringes seemed drawn to him. The mailbag had dropped Leaf Randolph and Chester Gecko into his lap. Lee Matson had been a godsend. The first classified ad Quintly had answered in a mercenary mag and he'd bagged a top-drawer psycho.

  Everything came together once he'd assembled his cast. With his skills as a writer-director-producer, he was able to outline and orchestrate each scheme down to the slightest detail. And so far, everything had gone nothing but right.

  After the Anderson case, he had netted a nice profit as a stealth producer of Suburban Decay. The same had been true for the other two Cabbagehead films.

  Oh, there was the little matter of the Taurus bombing failure. But that only affected Bindle and Marmelstein.

  He even had Die Down IV to look forward to. Now, that was the work of a genius. Formulaic crap, the movie that should have been a disaster at the box office was certain to be a hit thanks to his distinct but thorough ministrations.

  The New York bombing, the White House siege and now this night. This night would feature the event that would put him over the top. A cool 125 million by Memorial Day weekend alone. The gravy train would chug straight through to the Fourth of July and on to Oscar night in March.

  He would be brilliant. He would be prescient. He would be rich.

  In the privacy of his trailer, Tortilli smiled at the thought. He cast a final critical eye over his outfit. He didn't really like the tie. It was a little too yellow. Orange would be better.

  Pulling off the bow tie, he searched through his wardrobe for the proper tie. After knotting it around his neck, he went back to the mirror. And frowned. Still didn't look right.

  "What should one wear to a presidential assassination?" he mused aloud as he tipped his head to one side.

  He finally decided to go tieless. Pulling off the bow tie, he unbuttoned his shirt down to his cummerbund.

  "Perfect," he proclaimed.

  Tossing the orange tie onto a chair, Quintly Tortilli marched from his trailer. He closed the door with such violence, his rack of polyester suits swayed in the breeze.

  The orange bow tie slipped silently to the floor.

  Chapter 30

  The phone on Remo's plane didn't start working until they were about to land at LAX.

  "It's about damn time," Remo said angrily when Harold Smith finally picked up. "Jann Revolta's signed to do three more movies since we left freaking Washington."

  "Remo? What is wrong?"

  "I've been trying to call you all the way from D.C.," he complained. "I'm about two seconds away from landing in California and the bloody phone just started working."

  Smith didn't seem surprised. "That was a security precaution for the President."

  "What does he have to do with this?" Remo said sourly.

  "He is attending a scheduled fund-raising event at the Burbank Bowl tonight. After the events in Washington, he was only too eager to get out of the city. However, due to concerns for his safety, Air Force planes doused radio signals in a wide corridor for the duration of his trip. You must have been following in his wake."

  "When does this guy ever find time to run the country between fund-raisers?" Remo grumbled. "Anyway, I've got news."

  "As have I," Smith said excitedly.

  "Me first. Quintly Tortilli's our guy. He's the one making the movie all this bullshit has been based on."

  "As I suspected," the CURE director said. "Since we last spoke, I returned to the tangled finances of the studio in Seattle. Tortilli was a producer on the three independent films made successful by the original murders."

  "How come you didn't find that out before?"

  "As I said, the financial records are complex. One of the producers was an Allen Smithee. Fur
ther digging revealed that this was a corporation name owned by none other than Quintly Tortilli. It is in this name that he is also a Cabbagehead Productions backer."

  "Well he's definitely branched out from the indies, Smitty," Remo said. His hand rested on Chiun's screenplay. "I've got his blockbuster shooting script right here. It's got the New York bombing and the White House takeover. Barely mentions the trouble in Hollywood that it's supposedly based on."

  "You actually have his script?" Smith pressed. "I was not able to find it in the Taurus computer system."

  "Yeah, well, they left it lying around somewhere," Remo said vaguely. "Anyway, I've got his grand finale. He plans on swiping a Navy boat from the Long Beach shipyard. If he sticks to the script, we should be able to head it off."

  Smith paused. "Remo, the Long Beach naval facility was closed several years ago. I believe it has been turned over to commercial development. If the Navy has left any vessels there, they are no doubt worthless scrap."

  "All I know is what I read, Smitty," Remo insisted. "According to this, that's where he's going next."

  "I will arrange to have authorities converge on the area," Smith said reluctantly. The sound of rapid typing filtered through the phone.

  "I'll take care of Tortilli," Remo said. "And, Smitty?"

  "Yes?"

  "If they've built a mall at Long Beach like they've done on every other strip of land that used to be a military base in this country, you might want to evacuate the Gap," Remo suggested, hanging up the phone.

  WHEN REMO ARRIVED at Taurus Studios, he found the Master of Sinanju striding purposefully up the sidewalk. The old Korean's weathered face was pinched into furious lines.

  "Need a lift?" Remo called out the car window. Chiun's eggshell head lifted, shaken from his burdensome thoughts. He hurried over to Remo's rental car.

  "I am cursed with too trusting a soul," the Master of Sinanju intoned as he slipped into the front seat. His squeaky voice toyed with the fringes of indignant rage.

  "This ain't the town for one," Remo agreed. "What happened?"

  "I have just learned the meaning of 'cutting room floor,'" Chiun snapped as they drove up the main Taurus avenue. Dusk was falling. "It is an evil practice wherein the innocent are duped into believing their angelic countenances will appear on movie screens around the world, only to have those precious inches of film snipped and discarded by the ugly and duplicitous."

  Beneath the anger was injury. Chiun had been hurt by the lie. Remo's sympathetic smile was genuine.

  "I'm sorry, Little Father."

  Chiun pressed the back of one bony hand to his parchment forehead. "How will I ever overcome this embarrassment?" he lamented. "I have already told all my friends."

  "What friends?" Remo asked.

  "I told you," Chiun challenged. Remo's face warmed.

  "Oh, do not get maudlin," the Master of Sinanju snapped, noting the pleased expression on his pupil's face. "I merely mean that you will not miss an opportunity to lord this shame over me, jealous as you are."

  "For the last time, I am not jealous," Remo said, exasperated. "And you should look on the bright side. At least you got the chance to think you were going to be in a movie. A lot of people don't get that."

  "A starving man is not sated by the mere promise of food," Chiun replied. "The thirst of a man dying in the desert is not slaked by the mere mention of water."

  "You're being a little melodramatic, don't you think?" Remo said. "Besides, maybe it's all for the best. Smith would have stroked out the minute he heard you were in a movie."

  "Pah. Smith," Chiun sniffed. "He has hidden my light under his demented bushel basket far too long."

  "Smitty's okay," Remo disagreed. He was thinking of the past few days. Smith had become human to Remo in a way he did not like. "It's not his fault they cut you out. That sort of thing happens all the time." He regretted saying it the instant it passed his lips. "I think- I mean, I assume. I guess. Probably." He abruptly changed the subject. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where Tortilli is?"

  Chiun didn't reply right away. He was staring at his pupil's guilty silhouette.

  "No," he said, after an infinitely long pause. "I'll check with Bindle and Marmelstein," Remo said. He kept his eyes dead ahead as he drove to the main offices.

  "Did you know already of this 'cutting room floor?'" the Master of Sinanju demanded bluntly, eyes slits of suspicion.

  "You're the movie expert in the family," Remo said, dodging the question. "I'm just Frank to your Sly Stallone."

  Chiun's hazel eyes bored through to Remo's soul. Remo didn't flinch. At long last, the old man dropped back in his seat. "This is the worst day of my life," he lamented, stuffing his hands morosely into the sleeves of his kimono.

  "I thought the worst day was when you met me."

  "It was. You have been supplanted."

  "And it only took thirty years. If you live to be two hundred, maybe I'll get pushed back to three."

  "You should live that long," Chiun said.

  BINDLE AND MARMELSTEIN were still hiding out behind Bindle's fractured desk when Remo and Chiun burst through the glass doors.

  "If that's the limo, bring it around back," Hank Bindle's disembodied voice whispered.

  "The only place you're going is out that window."

  At the sound of Remo's voice, two pairs of fearful eyes sprang up above the upended desk half. When Bindle and Marmelstein saw Remo and Chiun striding toward them, two heavy tumblers thudded to the thick carpet. The executives scampered to their feet, backing to the wall.

  "Mr. Remo, Mr. Chiun. What a pleasant surprise," Marmelstein said nervously.

  Each man wore an ugly silk tuxedo. The suits were deep blue with black felt cuffs and cummerbunds. High white collars hugged their necks, a single black button where a bow tie should have been. "It was Quintly Tortilli," Bindle blurted.

  Marmelstein wheeled on his partner. Not to be out-stool pigeoned, Bruce added, "We didn't know it was him until yesterday. He did the White House thing entirely on his own. We just hired him to blow up that building in New York."

  Bindle kicked his partner viciously in the ankle. "Ow! I mean oh," Marmelstein stammered, hopping in place. "Shouldn't have said that. Edit that last bit out."

  Before Remo could open his mouth, the Master of Sinanju bullied his way in front of his pupil. "You have much explaining to do," Chiun challenged.

  Bindle's and Marmelstein's eyes grew wide. "We didn't know you were going to be here," Marmelstein whined rapidly. "I swear on my mother's eyes."

  "We thought you were gone," Bindle agreed, pleading. "We never would have done it if we knew you were on the lot. We want to make more great movies with you, baby."

  Chiun glanced at Remo, his expression one of sour confusion. "What are these imbeciles babbling about?"

  "They're the ones who hired Tortilli to blow up the studio," Remo supplied. "With you in it."

  Chiun spun to the Taurus cochairs, eyes blazing fire. "Is this true?" he demanded.

  "It was his idea," Bindle and Marmelstein both exclaimed in unison. Each was pointing to the other. Their faces grew shocked at the betrayal. "Liar!" they both accused at the same time.

  Bindle shoved Marmelstein into the broken desk. Bottles on the floor clanked loudly as the Taurus cochair stumbled through them.

  Marmelstein flung a handful of ice from a bucket at his partner. One piece struck Bindle in the face. "I'm blind!" Bindle shrieked. Squinting, he tried to kick Marmelstein. Missing completely, he punted the desk. A toe cracked audibly.

  "Ahhh!" Bindle yowled in pain.

  Thrilled to have the upper hand, Bruce Marmelstein was about to finish his partner off with a hurled bottle of martini olives when he felt a powerful hand grab him by the throat. The olive jar slipped from his hand as he felt himself being thrown through the air. He landed on the surface of his own, intact desk. With a grunt, Hank Bindle dropped roughly beside him.

  When they looked up, they found Remo a
few inches away. The Master of Sinanju stood at his elbow. Neither man seemed pleased.

  "Tortilli," Remo growled. "Where is he?"

  "Finishing location shooting," Bindle offered weakly, his left eye squeezed tightly shut. His broken toe ached.

  "I thought location stuff was done weeks ago."

  "This is an add-on scene. Quintly didn't like the last boat sequence. We scrapped it for something more exciting."

  Remo felt his heart quicken. "The boat sequence was cut?"

  "Quintly had a flash of inspiration," Marmelstein offered. "He wrote something new that dovetails with the whole terrorist-White House angle."

  "Where is he shooting?" Remo pressed.

  "The Burbank Bowl," Bindle replied.

  "That's where we were going," Marmelstein supplied. "It's a concert to celebrate soundtrack music."

  "Only we were going to show up late, 'cause that stuff gives us both headaches," Bindle ventured.

  "The President's at the Burbank Bowl, Little Father," Remo said worriedly to Chiun.

  The old Korean had his own problems.

  "They have edited me," Chiun moaned. "Me. And to add insult to injury, my own producers attempt to kill me with a boom. Oh, why did I ever think an assassin would be safe in this town?"

  Remo returned his attention to Bindle and Marmelstein.

  "How does the movie end?" he demanded.

  "The President dies." Bindle nodded, trying to sell Remo on the concept. "Great dramatic scene. Lance Wallace gets sworn in on the spot as the next Commander in Chief. Perfect setup for the sequel."

  Remo wheeled to Chiun. "We've got to get to the Burbank Bowl," he insisted sharply.

  "Gladly," Chiun responded bitterly. "My only wish before I shake the dust of this heathen village from my sandals forever is to mete out justice to the mendacious Quintly Tortilli."

  Scrambling, Bindle knelt on the desk. "By justice, you don't mean, by any chance, killing Quintly?"

  "I will feed him his own lying heart."

  "Heart feeding is bad, Bruce," Bindle said out of the corner of his mouth.

  "You can't kill him just yet," Bruce Marmelstein said quickly. "Not till he's finished tonight's filming. As it is, it's already gonna be a bitch getting this puppy in theaters in two weeks."