by John Fusco
The Dogs cheered in unison as the reel sped up: jerky kicks, staccato punches, wushu hands, and Wing Chun blocks, all building to a frenzied tempo of clips from some of the greatest vintage Hong Kong fight footage of all time. A narrator crooned low, as if channeling his inner James Earl Jones—it was T-Rich, who was good with voices: “For three decades, behind every legendary Hong Kong fight hid a man with no name. A man who made it all possible, even when it was impossible. . . . NOW, for the first time . . . he steps out from behind the stars to shine on his own. The man Bey Logan calls the greatest stuntman in the history of Hong Kong cinema—Louie Mo. Out from the shadows and into . . . The Cage.”
“Louie Mo,” they all hollered and hooted, and Louie, Corona in hand, shrugged. Shrugged but couldn’t hide a smile.
“Who is seeing this commercial?” Louie said.
“Who is seeing this what?”
“Who is seeing this?”
“The fucking world, Louie,” Troy said. He raised his bottle in a toast. “This is called the sizzle reel. The buzz.”
As the Dogs continued to celebrate, Louie excused himself, went out onto the back porch, just him and the slow roar of the night surf.
“He all right?” T-Rich said.
“Yeah,” said Troy, rewinding the teaser. “He gets a little emotional. He’s finally getting his own movie, man. Malone?”
Malone was just staring, pondering the sizzle reel with an oddly detached look on his face.
“What do you think?”
Malone scratched the ginger scruff on his chin, his eyes glassy slits. “YouTube,” he drawled. “Cut this puppy viral, bro. This is a game changer.”
13
HONG KONG
The Swiss handgun, a SIG Sauer Mosquito, rested on the table just an easy reach from the wireless mouse. Cao sat over the keypad in a large open-floor office, focusing intently. With a glass eye and his longish black hair chopped in layers, he resembled an exotic bird on a perch. “Chen Jinbao,” he said, scrolling down names and reading them off to another man, a stout guy named Johnny Yee, who made notes on an iPad. Both men wore suits, as did the five or six who were busying themselves at long card tables laid out with watches, handbags, blue jeans, Northface parkas, and endless racks of bootleg DVDs.
The guys at the tables seemed to be taking inventory of product, but not Tiger Eye Cao. His eye replacement wasn’t actually glass, it was tiger eye gemstone, polished to an amber shine; it gave him the chilling stare of a big cat, even now as he focused on “the Google,” as he called it. Having been over on the mainland for the past two weeks, making his presence known on the set of a Peter Hu movie, he missed the Google. Missed “the Facebook,” too. Those Internet tools were banned in China, but here in Hong Kong they were wide-open portals. Back when Tiger Eye was riding a sport bike in the streets as part of the Heaven and Earth Society’s 49, it wasn’t so easy to track accounts. Cabaret acts, television shows, and movie productions could be slippery, moving in and out before the Triads even knew they were working. But the Google was like free surveillance if you knew how to use it. Just type in “movies filming in Hong Kong” or the name of a sneaky producer and the screen lit up with articles, videos, and links-within-links that could take you inside the offices of the Hong Kong Film Fund. That’s what Tiger Eye liked about the entertainment business; it was made up of natural braggers and self-promoters. Easy to track.
“How about Koi Lam?” Tiger Eye said in Cantonese.
“Paid,” said Johnny Yee, making a check mark on his iPad.
“King Jiang?”
“King Jiang is not paid.”
Tiger Eye grew quiet for a moment. “Give him until end of week. Then send the Little Brothers.” He clicked back to the next page on his computer, scanned, and was ready to close out when something caught his one good eye. He stared at the link for a long moment, the one that read: Legendary Stuntman Hong Kong Louie Mo New Movie YouTube.
“We finish?” said Johnny Yee, but Tiger Eye did not respond. His good eye widened slightly and he tapped on the blue link, brought up YouTube. When Johnny Yee heard the name, he left his folding chair with such force he nearly tipped it. Leaning over Tiger Eye’s computer, he watched the teaser unfold with urgent fight choreography, set to a heavy metal soundtrack: “LOUIE MO,” the narrator said. “Out from the shadows and into . . . The Cage.” The screen faded to black and COMING SOON bled through in dramatic red font.
“Mothershit,” Cao said in English. Then he hit play again. . . .
• • •
Uncle Seven sat in the lounge of the Peninsula Hotel in a big, overstuffed leather chair, modestly picking his teeth from behind a napkin. He had arrived in one of the Rolls-Royce Phantom limousines in the hotel fleet, punctual as always. It was Thursday and happy hour at the Peninsula featured the Carpenters singing their greatest hits. The girl had the same long hair as Karen Carpenter and sang just like her except for the accent on certain words. The Chinese Richard double just sat and played piano, daintily sipping ginger ale in between songs.
Uncle Seven never missed the act; those ’70s songs were like a tribute to his own greatest era. In his herringbone suit and muted tie, he’d sit at his special table to the right of the stage, nosing and sipping the most expensive single malt whiskey in the hotel. Around him sat sub-bosses and vanguards, those long-suffering underlings he forced to come hear the Carpenters’ clone act. Standing off a ways was a special bodyguard with an earbud like a Secret Service agent. The hotel itself positioned a security man, also with an earbud, not far away.
During the music set, Uncle Seven stared with a knotted, somber expression, bottom lip pressed outward. Any tourist might have thought he was just some scowling old businessman picking his teeth. But when the piano started “We’ve Only Just Begun,” he surrendered a slight smile and emotion showed in his eyes. Sometimes, toward the end of that particular number, when the girl would switch to Cantonese, Uncle Seven would feel his eyes pool up and he’d remove his tortoiseshell glasses, stanch a tear. The Chinese Karen Carpenter would smile sweetly at him. One night he had six dozen white roses delivered to the stage only minutes after giving the orders.
Now he noticed that the hotel’s security man, muscular in a white dress shirt and black vest, was questioning someone trying to get into the lounge. Two of Uncle Seven’s men went over, straightened it out, and led Tiger Eye Cao inside. At the table, the Triad with the glass eye and birdlike feathery hair bowed to the elder. Uncle Seven nodded, gestured for him to sit, gestured for someone to pour the man a dram of the imported scotch. Tiger Eye did, after all, hold the rank of White Paper Fan, a position high up in the Triads organization.
When the song ended to a smattering of applause, Tiger Eye leaned near the old man, whispered in his ear. The aging godfather couldn’t hear well over the applause, so he shifted his body and Tiger Eye half-stood to deliver a second try.
When Uncle Seven heard the name, a dark look passed over him. For a moment, it appeared that he was choking on salty bar nuts. He coughed hard into his napkin, kept coughing. The men at the table and hotel security, and even the Chinese Karen Carpenter, were all looking anxiously toward him. When the cough subsided and he swallowed some scotch, the piano player started playing “Yesterday Once More.” Uncle Seven sat back and smiled. His men knew he wasn’t smiling at the girl; he was smiling at the news that Tiger Eye Cao had just delivered. It teased an almost youthful smile from his ancient face. Revenge was a dish best served with a dram of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin and a drop of water to open it up. Number 8 of the 36 Oaths: Make a sworn brother lose face, you shall be killed by myriad swords.
14
CHINESE MONEY
Morning broke with a tide so high it lapped at the rotting stilts of Dog House and brought in a swirl of sea trash and hungry gulls. Troy was humpbacked at his Mac, in his boxers, reading down through the comments on his YouTube teaser. He w
as trying not to get too big a head from a litany of AWESOME, or too depressed from WTF?? and THIS WILL SUCK. Someone actually knew his name from the Austin Film Fest and wrote a thoughtful blurb on his earlier heist film, calling him unpretentious and a breath of fresh air. He wondered if it was his Aunt Rose in New Jersey.
Then he read an odd-looking comment that had some Chinese characters attached beneath: Very good taste movie. Our company is very much hopeful to consider foreign distribution. We release movie in rather big foreign market. See our link and contact. Hello!
The name at the bottom, near the Chinese characters read “CINE WORLD FILM MARKETING, HONG KONG.” Troy felt a slight rush, hit the link. The site was simple and unadorned, with the choice of Chinese, English, or Deutsch. Spare but professional, it listed several produced titles that Troy knew. Cine World, the site advertised, also owned a chain of movie theaters across China.
With Dutch having a morning smoke and coffee on the back porch, and Louie and the Dogs asleep in their respective chambers, Troy sent an e-mail to the link, expressing his interest. By six that night he had gone back and forth twice with a Mr. Xia.
It was with great pleasure, Mr. Xia wrote, and with “fortuitous timing” that Cine World would be sending some buyers to New York and Los Angeles. He said he would love to meet the director and discuss.
“It just goes to prove, man,” Troy told Durbin, who had come home with a restock of beers. “You follow your passion, things fall into place. It gets contagious, brother.”
“Give me some of that contagion, man. New Line passed on my spec. They said it felt familiar.”
“Never say die, Durbin.”
“What about Slash? You got what—two weeks?”
“Here’s the plan,” Troy said, taking a semi-cold beer from Durbin’s grocery bag. “In two, three weeks, when Avi’s just about ready to come cut my head off, I send a DVD over to Lantana. No cover letter, no note. Just let him watch and get blown away. Then I drop the bomb, tell him what I did, and tell him that he owns The Cage. He owns a piece of movie history, he owns a hit. Then, if everything goes right with this Chinese company, I hit him with the closer and tell him we’ve also got foreign distribution across all of Asia.”
“Jesus, bro.”
“Forget Slash, he’ll be paying back his investors with a return they never dreamed of. It’s a win-win, love-fest, you’re-a-fucking-genius-Troy situation.”
“It sounds risky.”
“Ask Louie Mo about risk,” Troy said. “Ask Louie Mo what it feels like to ride on top of the Shanghai bullet train with no wires.”
He had Durbin’s attention, so he drove one last point home: “Forget trying to win the spec lottery with another gratuitous frat comedy. Write from the heart, bro. Write what you know.”
Durbin stared at him for a long moment. “My life is a gratuitous frat comedy. It is what I know. And I’m passionate about it.”
Troy ruminated, but didn’t know what to say.
A toasted voice came from a chair where Malone sat, waiting on a whale sighting. “Go with God, bro. We’re all just one failure away from selling star maps and hand jobs in front of the Motherlode.”
“Thank you, Deepak,” Durbin said. Then Troy’s cell phone came alive with the Enter the Dragon theme: Old school jazz, funky wah-wah pedal, and jungle scream. It was a ringtone that Troy had set for Louie Mo and everyone loved it.
“Yeah, Louie, hey.”
Troy listened to Louie, cast his eyes up toward the stairs. “Come on down and get a fish taco, man.”
Louie called from upstairs often; it was his office, he said. Descending the stairs was a chore best made only once a day. Now, as he made his careful descent, dressed in his red sweat suit, he stopped to look around. He never knew who he’d find at Dog House on any given day: Dutch in the living room, talking famous car chases with Durbin; T-Rich asleep on the floor with L.A. Weekly. Or Malone and Troy, unwrapping fish tacos and jabbering like excited schoolboys about Sukiyaki Western Django. Louie joined them at the kitchen table, unwrapping a fish taco like he was too tired, or too queasy, to eat. “What scene tomorrow?” he wanted to know.
“I left your call sheet under your door. You fight the Brazilian twins on the beach, up at Point Dume.”
“Jumping off rocks?”
“Yeah. Like we rehearsed.”
Louie winced at the thought. “Should have filmed rehearse.”
“Should we get you a stunt double?”
Louie threw the fish taco wrapper at Troy. The director fended it off, laughing. “How about I kill you?” Louie said. “First the Brazil twins, then you. For making me do this.”
Troy laughed harder, watching Louie double-clutch the messy taco and take a tired bite.
• • •
The fly-off-the-rocks stunt at the Point went off like gangbusters. No matter how he griped, when the camera rolled, Louie Mo harnessed the adrenaline and pushed himself through scar tissue and stiff hips. The Brazilian twins were charismatic team players, and Louie choreographed a clever way to dispatch them both with a reverse crescent kick he called “two-cut eyebrow.”
The boys applauded him after every take. Then, after the final shot of the day, the one Troy always called “the martini,” they bumped knuckles, slapped his back, and took him and Dutch for sushi and beer at Zuma Beach. Malone suggested they stop calling the final shot of each day the martini, and begin calling it the brewski because that’s all they drank. No, said Louie. He loved the sound of Troy calling out the martini and Troy was the director. The boss.
Over sushi, Louie told stories about some of his most dangerous stunts. The guys laughed at the way Troy would fill in the blanks when Louie couldn’t remember the name of an actor or the order of an action sequence. “On that crazy movie,” Louie would say, “I smash through the glass and the director . . .”
Without missing a beat, Troy would quietly fill the gap, say, “Tsui Hark,” not even looking up from his spicy tuna roll. Louie would stare, bewildered, then surrender a knuckle bump.
The boys would howl over another round of beers.
“With all his concussions,” Dutch said to Troy, “he needs you with him to finish his memories.”
“Almost burned head off,” Louie said, trying to top his own accounts. “John Woo movie. I am double for Chow Yun Fat.”
“A Better Tomorrow II,” Troy said. “When the house fucking blows and Chow’s head catches on fire.”
“Me,” Louie said, then sipped his beer.
Troy was lost in thought now, making connections to sequences in his mind. “City on Flame,” he said. “Directed by Clifford Kwan. That chick, man.”
Louie seemed disinterested now, more focused on his beer than another story.
“Rebecca Lo,” Troy kept going. “She was hot.”
“Yeah” was all Louie said, and now he seemed to be looking for the waiter, like he wanted to pay the bill and go.
“Whatever happened to her? Rebecca Lo.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Too many falls on his head,” Dutch said.
“I fucking love that scene in Dragon Cop when she fights the fat dude on the bar.”
“Stupid movie, I don’t remember,” Louie said, growing restless now as Troy played to Malone and Durbin.
“She’s a stripper,” he explained, “and she pole dances while beating the shit out of, like, ten motherfuckers.”
“Okay,” Louie said, forcing a smile, “no more talking about stupid Hong Kong movie.” But Troy was worked up, even trying to YouTube the sequence on his phone.
“She’s spinning on the pole and throwing kicks, and then she spins down to one knee and there’s a close-up, just her eyes. She says, ‘Me love you long time,’ then pulls a fucking metal hair pin and throws it—”
Louie lashed out suddenly. Violently. He knocke
d over Troy’s Corona. And Durbin’s, too. “I said, stop talking about all this stupid kung fu movie!”
The table went still. Malone slid his chair back, mopped some spilled beer from his baggies.
“Whoa,” Dutch said, calming the stuntman.
“Easy, bro,” Troy said. He was looking cautiously into the eyes of the washed-up stunt player, thought he saw something dark there. Something unpredictable. Something he hadn’t seen before, except a hint back when Louie had punched the Thai kickboxer in the face.
“I’m sorry,” Louie said, righting the tipped beer bottle and using napkins to sop the spill. “Headache.”
“He gets headaches,” Dutch said.
“No worries,” Troy said, but he felt that same sense of distrust he did when Dutch first walked through the Dog House. What kind of loose cannons were these folks? Were they on bath salts or some shit?
T-Rich took the curse off. “Troy can get carried away. Don’t ever get him started on the final gun fight in El Mariachi.”
“Let’s go home,” Louie said. His fifth Corona was dry.
HONG KONG, 1993—NIGHT
Louie shimmied up the mast of the sailboat as it went up in a vertical flame the color of hot teal. Fire licked at his ostrich-skin loafers as he squirreled to the boom then clung there, waiting for the breakaway. The radio crackled and Sammy the Fire Man yelled in Cantonese from an unseen perch. The mast began to topple, flames and sparks sweeping over the mainsail as he held tightly, riding the falling mast over the dark waters.
As the passing speedboat roared by, Louie timed it to perfection. His hands, gelled with thermal barrier, were burning, but he held on two seconds longer, then let go. He landed in the hull and deftly turned his loss of balance into a whirling ax kick, knocking the pilot overboard and seizing the wheel. The wind caught his Jimmy Tang wig just right. No one would ever know it was not Jimmy Tang.
Maybe it was his determination to work in the face of Uncle Seven’s threats, but Louie pulled it off in one take. The applause was spare—most of the crew had gone home—but he felt the surge inside overtaking the stubborn depression; the Creature in his bloodstream made him feel alive and ready for a drink.
