The Remake

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  But at the sound of his voice the dwarf had jumped straight into the air as if he’d been burned with a branding iron—and came down on the run, headed straight for R.J.

  Mrs. Lake, too, had come off the bed, grabbed the lamp from the bedside table, and yanking it from its socket, began swinging wildly, apparently trying to take off R.J.’s head, since she was swinging too high to hit the dwarf.

  Instead of a smooth, quick retreat out the hotel room’s door, R.J. was instantly snagged into a fight with a naked dwarf and a Baptist. The dwarf started winging wild haymakers, right at crotch level, and R.J. was hard put to fend him off and duck the lamp at the same time.

  But more through luck than skill, R.J. managed to swing his heavy shoulder bag and connect with the side of the dwarf’s head, and the little man went down.

  At about the same time, though, the lamp caught R.J. on the cheek. He could feel the skin split, and then he got a hand up and yanked the lamp away from the outraged Mrs. Lake.

  “How dare you,” she said in her genteel voice, in spite of the fact that she was standing there stark naked after trying to decapitate what looked like an old lady.

  “I was wondering the same thing,” R.J. said. He nodded to where the dwarf was struggling to a sitting position. “Your friend could use a hand, sister,” he said, and as she turned to look, R.J. bolted for the door.

  Hurrying down the stairs, he tore a strip from his dress and held it to his cheek. It wasn’t too bad, might not even need stitches.

  He pushed out onto the street and the cold air slowed the bleeding. After a block or two he didn’t feel too bad at all.

  “Jesus, lady, are you all right?”

  R J. turned to see a black man in a nice suit, holding a small girl by the hand.

  “I’m fine,” said R.J. “Just a scratch.”

  The man looked startled as he heard R.J.’s male voice.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” R.J. asked him.

  The man shook his head numbly. “What the hell—” he said.

  R.J. grinned. It made his cheek hurt, but he grinned anyway. “It’s a New York thing,” said R.J. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Angelo Bertelli was waiting for him in his office when he got there. Wanda, his secretary, sighed and said, “I tried to stop him, but he lit one of your cigars.”

  “Thanks for trying,” R.J. said. “He probably has a warrant for the cigar. Nothing you could do.” R.J. looked toward his office and sure enough, the blue fumes of one of his Cubans were trickling out the door of his inner office.

  R.J. hadn’t smoked in a lot of years, but he kept a supply of good stogies in his desk. When he was thinking, chewing on a cigar helped him think. Besides, no matter how much he hated the smell of burning tobacco, a good cigar-unlit—smelled great.

  Bertelli was the only person who smoked his cigars, and it pissed R.J. off, but Bertelli just smiled with his shiny white teeth and earthy Guinea charm. When it came down to it, he could do what he wanted. He was a cop, and he had become a damned good friend. A guy in R.J.’s business needed friends on the force.

  Besides, R.J. hated bullshit, and Angelo was a kindred spirit. Bertelli spent most of his career energy fighting it in the NYPD. “I go to work every day,” he had told R.J. one night over the best Italian dinner R.J. had ever eaten, “and I got to surf in the shit. Shouldn’t be that way. They should let a cop be a cop.”

  R.J. agreed. Most of his run-ins with cops had swamped him in the same waves of bullshit Bertelli spoke of surfing on. They also found they both liked the Knicks, the Giants, and bad musical theater. Still, the cigar smoke was annoying.

  R.J. swung the door wide and stepped in. “Jesus Christ, Angelo,” he said, waving a hand at the smoke. “Is this some kind of Sicilian peasant de-lousing technique?”

  Bertelli was seated behind R.J.’s desk, his feet up, the stogie smoldering in his mouth. He glanced at R.J. and looked him over carefully before letting out a long wolf whistle. His tough but handsome features were carefully set in a poker face. “Well, well,” he said. “Spring is in the air. Is there something you need to talk about, R.J.?”

  R.J. looked down at his dress. Bertelli was, in fact, sitting on his clothes, which he had stacked neatly on his chair. “This whole joint is going to stink like a pool-hall spitttoon for three weeks,” he said indignantly, “and all you can talk about is my wardrobe?”

  Bertelli blew out more smoke. “I’d have to say it needs talkin’, R.J. Have you been doin’ this long?”

  R.J. yanked his clothes out from under Bertelli and started to change into them. “About a month now,” he admitted. “Ever since that damned TV thing Casey did. I can’t show my goddamn face anywhere in town without some dimwit shouting, ‘Yo! You that TV motherfucka!’ Help me with this thing in the back, would you?”

  Bertelli undid the snaps.

  “Thanks, Angelo. You practiced that, huh?”

  “Never on somebody with your physical charms, thank God,” Bertelli said, leaning back into the chair. He picked up the cigar again and blew out a large purple cloud with a satisfied look.

  “You’re ruining a perfectly good chewing stogie,” R.J. told him, pulling up his pants.

  “These things are supposed to be smoked, R.J. Not chewed. Chewing is an abomination in the eyes of decent society. I’m just like restorin’ the delicate natural balance here.” He blew out more smoke, looking even happier. “Besides, I didn’t figure you’d mind, considering what I come down here for.”

  R.J. sat in his client chair. “Jesus, don’t tell me. They finally caught Lieutenant Kates molesting a choirboy, and he shot himself rather than go to jail.”

  Bertelli grinned. “It ain’t quite that good, but it’s all right.” He slid a hand into and out of his slick Italian silk suit and threw a small white envelope on the desk. “Knicks tickets.”

  “Have another cigar, Angelo,” R.J. said scooping up the tickets. “When are they for? The Bulls?”

  “For tonight, R.J. Phoenix, and it’s breakin’ my fuckin’ heart not to go see Charles Barkley. But I got a date who only likes indoor sports, if you know what I mean.”

  “Aw, Jesus Christ, Angelo,” R.J. moaned, tossing the tickets back on the desk. “I can’t go tonight, it’s Casey’s birthday. Put that goddamned cigar out, would you?”

  “Hey, you shoulda said. Now I gotta get her something quick,” Bertelli complained, ignoring R.J.’s request to snuff the stogie. “What you got planned?”

  “I have reservations at Tavern on the Green. Then I figured a carriage ride through the park.”

  “Sure, the whole tourist thing. Everybody should do that once” He took the cigar out of his mouth and reflectively dumped an inch of ash into R.J.’s pencil jar. “You two doin’ all right, ace?”

  R.J. snorted. “What do you get when you cross an elephant with a rhinoceros?”

  “Elefino.”

  “Exactly. Hell if I know, Angelo. Sometimes I can hear the angels singing, and sometimes I think that’s just a trick of the acoustics, there’s no music at all. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I think we’re okay. She helped me with this disguise.”

  “She dresses you up like an old lady—and you think that’s a good sign? R.J., you’re in serious trouble if she ever turns against you.”

  “For all I know, she has turned against me. I just can’t tell with her.” He shrugged. “So, I take it for what it is, which is pretty damned good most of the time.”

  “That’s all what matters,” Bertelli said. He stood up and threw the stogie at the waste basket. “Gotta go. This was supposed to be my lunch hour, and now I gotta find a present for Casey. I’ll see ya, R.J. Sorry ’bout the Knicks.”

  “Me, too, Angelo. See you later.”

  R.J. opened the windows wide. A cold wind blew in and took the cigar smoke out. He still had two hours before he was to pick up Casey at her office. He used the time to go over the books with Wanda and dictate a few
quick letters.

  He enjoyed the time with Wanda—they both did—and it never felt like they had to play any of the typical office games that plagued most boss-secretary relationships.

  Besides, Wanda was so fast and efficient, with her shorthand, typing, filing, everything, that they could kid around, take it easy, and still get all the work done in record time.

  Wanda was a real treasure, there was no doubt about it, and he felt lucky to have her. He let her know that by giving her unscheduled bonuses as often as he could. The money went to her kid in Buffalo. R.J. had never met the kid, who lived with Wanda’s mother. Wanda took long weekends twice a month to go visit and beyond that never said a word about the kid, the kid’s father, or how the whole situation had happened. She never said, and R.J. was smart enough not to ask.

  He looked at her across his desk. She perched on the chair, relaxed but alert. He really was lucky.

  “Okay,” he told her. “We’re ready to bill Reverend Lake.” He pushed a roll of film toward her. “Get that developed first thing tomorrow. Try not to peek; it’s ugly.”

  “If I wanted to stay away from ugly I’d move to Vermont,” she told him. “I sure wouldn’t work for a seedy Manhattan gumshoe.”

  “If it bothers you, try the florist on the corner. Maybe he’s hiring.”

  “No good,” she said. “I’m heterosexual, and I’m not Korean. You want the bill to go out first, or you calling him in for show and tell?”

  “Show and tell,” R.J. said, hating it. It was what they called the procedure when they had a case wrapped and the client came in to review the evidence. The evidence was generally very graphic pictures proving that a loved one didn’t return the tender sentiments. It could get very dicey. R.J. had a feeling that a Baptist minister looking at pictures of his young wife screwing a dwarf might turn just about as bad as it could get. “But like I said, it’s ugly. Have the Kleenex ready. The big box.”

  “Sure, boss. You want the handcuffs, too? Or can you handle an aging preacher without them?”

  “Quit needling me. One of these days I’ll get you in the cuffs.”

  She stood up, gathering her steno book and the ledgers. “One of these days I’ll let you.” She spun away briskly, her short, dark red hair snapping, and was already into the outer office before R.J. could hit her with a comeback. He snorted. Not that he had one.

  CHAPTER 4

  Casey had an office in a midtown production company run by a Pillsbury doughboy look-alike named Pike. R.J. called him “the Slug” because he was pale, blubbery, and slimy. But this slug had teeth, and he liked chomping them onto R.J. Anytime he caught R.J. in the office he’d call for the security guard, a former heavyweight contender, who had stayed in shape. The guard liked R.J. and didn’t like Pike, but a job was a job and he’d given R.J. one or two rough trips down in the elevator.

  So instead of taking the elevator up to Casey’s office, R.J. called up from the lobby. There was no place to sit in the lobby, so R.J. looked through the window at the people on the sidewalk outside. A man with a briefcase pushed a woman with her arms full of packages. The woman sat down in a slush heap. The man grabbed her cab and closed the door.

  A young guy in shorts and a tank top started preaching and singing on the corner. An old lady walked slowly past, bundled up in so many coats and sweaters and scarves that she could barely move.

  A large woman on roller blades whizzed by. She grabbed at the old woman’s purse, snapped the strap, and was gone. The old woman stood watching for a moment, then opened her mouth and started screeching. It was a high, thin, dry wail with no words that R.J. could make out. People walking by moved a small step further away from her as they passed. In case she was crazy, R.J. thought. And in case it was catching. Which it sometimes was in this city.

  The elevator doors slid open behind R.J. and he turned. His eyes met Casey’s and she smiled. R.J. could feel it all the way down to his toes. Not that it was such a huge smile, but it was aimed at him, and that made it seem like it was bigger than Times Square.

  “Hello, Grandma,” she greeted him, planting a small kiss on his cheek. “How’s the dirty picture trade?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” R.J. said, looking her over. She was dressed in a cool blue spring power suit with a ruffle showing at the throat and she looked like a million dollars. “You look great,” R.J. told her. He wanted to say she took his breath away, she made him hear music, just looking at her made him want to do handsprings, something like that. But she didn’t go for what she thought of as flowery compliments. Telling her she looked great was pushing the limit.

  Still, she linked her arm with his and they stepped out onto the rush-hour-packed sidewalk to find a cab.

  It took awhile. There were plenty of cabs, but there was even more competition. By the time they got a cab crosstown and pulled up in front of Tavern on the Green it was close to 7:00, which was the time R.J. had made the reservation for. There was the usual crowd in front of the restaurant, maybe a little bigger than normal.

  “We’re on time. You may not have to wait for your table,” R.J. said.

  “That’s too bad. I wanted the full experience.”

  And maybe the crowd looked a little different, now that he thought of it. As they got out of the cab onto the sidewalk, R.J. noticed a lot of cameras. “The newshounds are out,” he said to Casey.

  Casey shrugged. “They all have someone on the payroll at these places, to let them know who’s eating there every night.”

  “Well,” R.J. said. “Tonight there must be some—”

  He was going to say “celebrity” but that was chopped off by the shout of “There he is!” and before he knew what was happening he was in the center of a mob. Pushing, elbowing, foot-stomping reporters clonked one another with microphones as they clawed their way toward him, bellowing his name and whinnying questions.

  “What the hell—” R.J. managed to sputter.

  Casey, clinging to his arm, seemed coolly amused by it all. “Quite a birthday surprise, R.J.,” she said, putting her head to his ear. “Did it take you long to work this up?”

  “Mr. Brooks—!” yelled a woman with short blond hair and a long microphone.

  She was shoved brutally out of the way by a guy with smarmy, blow-dried good looks. “R.J.!” the man yelled. “How about it? How do you feel?”

  “Jesus Christ,” R.J. grunted as the crowd pushed them back. “What the hell is all this?”

  “It must be the remake,” Casey got out between shoves. “I didn’t think they’d land on you like this.”

  It made no sense to R.J. But for the next two minutes he was too busy to think about it, as he tried to get them into the restaurant alive. The reporters didn’t seem to care if they got their story, whatever it was, from a live person or roadkill.

  About ten feet short of the door it began to look like they weren’t going to make it. R.J. put Casey behind him, with her back to a wall, and faced the mob.

  “All right, goddammit,” he snarled. “What is this all about?”

  The hysterical babble rose a notch as they all tried to get the first question.

  “One at a time! You—with the mustache.” R.J. pointed to a young black man with a mustache and gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Mr. Brooks,” the man said with a smug glance at the others, “what were your feelings when you heard about the remake?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear. What remake?”

  There was actually a moment of near silence.

  “You haven’t heard?” asked the short-haired blond.

  “For Christ’s sake, heard what?”

  Almost in unison, R.J. could hear the TV people muttering “Move in tight” to their cameramen.

  Blow-dry tried to shove a microphone up R.J.’s nose as he said, “Andromeda Pictures is making a remake of As Time Goes By.”

  R.J. couldn’t think of a single word worth saying.

  He tried to think of a cuss word strong
enough, and couldn’t. He tried to believe that somebody was kidding him, and he couldn’t do that, either.

  A remake of As Time Goes By? It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t even thinkable. It was maybe the single greatest movie Hollywood had ever made—a remake of perfection? No way; how could anybody, even in Hollywood, think they could get away with that?

  But R.J.’s feelings didn’t have a lot to do with his appreciation of good cinema. As Time Goes By had been the picture his parents had been working on when they first met. The script had been first-rate, the direction terrific, and the chemistry between the members of the cast—especially his parents—had been the stuff that acting dreams are made of.

  The movie had turned his father from a star into the star. It had brought his mother, too, into the front rank of Hollywood’s starlets. And as he now knew from his mother’s diaries, he had been conceived on the set during the filming of the movie.

  And some soulless, money-hungry, brain-dead baboon was making a remake?

  Some greedy half-wit was trying to cash in on his father’s lifeblood? Trample on something that was almost sacred, just for a couple of cheesy fast dollars?

  No. By God—

  “How about it, Mr. Brooks? You have a comment?”

  “I’ll say I do,” R.J. snarled.

  The microphones hovered close, the lenses zoomed in, the jackals held their breath.

  “I hope the goddamned animals responsible for this die a nasty death as soon as possible. Now get the hell out of my way.”

  R.J. pushed through the reporters, holding Casey’s hand. They bleated for more, but he was too angry to talk. He was so mad he didn’t have any idea how he got to the table, but a few minutes later he was sitting there with a menu in his hands.

  Casey was saying something, but he didn’t hear it. He looked up at her. She sat across from him, cool and amused.

  “You knew about this?” he asked her.