The Remake

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  Henry Portillo nodded. “Just the sort of elegant greeting I would expect from you. You never had two good manners to rub together, hijo.”

  R.J. was not Portillo’s hijo, and Uncle Hank was not R.J.’s uncle, either. The relationship was more complicated than that. Sometimes closer, sometimes worlds apart.

  R.J. had been a kid adrift in Hollywood with two high-powered stars for mother and father, and nobody around to be parents. Portillo, a rising, young Mexican-American cop on the LAPD, had taken the boy under his wing. R.J. was grateful, but also knew that part of the reason Portillo had looked after him was because of his lifelong, unconfessed adoration of R.J.’s mother, screen legend Belle Fontaine.

  “Well, then,” R.J. said. “Lo siento mucho, tio. Take a chair, please. Here, please try mine, the other one is not soft enough. You want some coffee?”

  “Did you make it?” the older man asked suspiciously.

  “No, it’s Wanda’s.”

  “Then I would appreciate a cup of coffee, R.J.”

  R.J. got the coffee, and a cup for himself, and took it back to his inner office. He sat in the client chair and looked fondly at Portillo.

  “I thought you were in L.A., Uncle Hank. What brings you to town?”

  Portillo sipped the coffee. “Ah. Good. Keep that woman Wanda, she understands coffee. As usual, R.J., you bring me to town.”

  R.J. shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  Portillo pointed a hard, blunt finger at R.J. as if it were some kind of weapon. “I’m afraid you’re in trouble again, hijo. And this time I don’t know if I can bail you out.”

  CHAPTER 14

  R.J. stared at Portillo again, for a good long time. “Okay, Uncle Hank,” he finally said. “I know you wouldn’t fly three thousand miles away from a decent plate of huevos rancheros for a practical joke. So I have to believe I’m in trouble in Los Angeles. Who did I kill? Another lawyer?”

  Portillo shook his head. “This is not a joke, R.J.”

  “Then what is it? I’m living like a goddamned Boy Scout, Uncle Hank. I haven’t even chewed a cigar in almost a week.”

  Portillo simply looked at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head as if disgusted at what he saw. “You look terrible,” he said at last. “Have you given up sleeping?”

  “I had a rough night,” R.J. admitted. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “When did you eat last?”

  “Jesus Christ, Uncle Hank. You fly across the country, sneak in here and tell me I’m practically in prison, and now you come on like mamacita? What the hell gives?”

  The older man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I worry, R.J. I see the way you crap away your life and I think it is maybe partly my fault.”

  R.J. laughed. “Why? Because you never taught me to play the violin? Come on, Uncle Hank. Spit it out. What the hell kind of trouble am I in?”

  Portillo sighed again and shook his head. “I am here unofficially. The LAPD brass knows that I know you. They did not actually ask me to come. However, they did approve some extra sick leave for me. They know I am here.”

  “That’s comforting,” R.J. said. “Get to the point, okay?”

  “The point, hijo, is that you have said some stupid things for the news cameras and now these things are coming home to roost.”

  “Uncle Hank, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Portillo reached into a pocket of his houndstooth jacket and pulled out an envelope. From his breast pocket he took reading glasses, small half-lenses, and stuck them on his nose. He drew out a slip of paper and read. “I hope the goddamned animals responsible for this die a nasty death as soon as possible.” Then he looked up at R.J. over the rims of his half-glasses. “Did you say those words, R.J.?”

  “Fucking A,” R.J. said. “Doesn’t the LAPD have anything better to do? They run out of crime out there, Uncle Hank?”

  “Did you?” Portillo insisted.

  “Sure, I said it,” R.J. snorted. “I meant it, too. And I still hope it. Especially that brass-plated bitch, Janine Wright. And if you’re even half the man I think you are, you hope so, too.”

  Portillo watched R.J., then shook his head sadly. “All right, R.J.,” he said. “All right.” He put the glasses back in their case and the paper back in his pocket. He said nothing else.

  “What?” R.J. said after a minute of puzzling silence. “That’s it? You came all this way to ask me if I said that? I could have told you on the telephone.”

  “I needed to see your face when I asked you,” Portillo said. “To see if you might have done this thing. I did not believe you could, but—” He shrugged.

  “Well, did I do it? And what is it, anyway?”

  “I don’t know if you did it, R.J.” he complained. “I don’t think so. I hope not, but—” A shrug. “I can’t always read you anymore. As for what it is—”

  Portillo reached inside the envelope again. He unfolded a second sheet of paper and flipped it across the desk to R.J. Then he sighed and leaned the chair back, turning it to look out the window. “Someone is making death threats to the cast and crew of that movie and the studio is concerned.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” R.J. spat out, picking up the paper. He unfolded it and glanced down.

  It was a photocopy of a note. Somebody had done the old cutout trick and pasted a bunch of words and letters together to spell out a message. It wasn’t exactly a Valentine, either. It said:

  Lawyers are dead, violence leaves me blue

  But Stop The Remake or I stop you.

  “That’s just the first one,” Portillo said. “There was another one two days ago, which is why I came.” He turned to face R.J. now. “The lab has not released it yet, but I am told it was more violent. They were both mailed from New York, both received by—” He hesitated. “—by the head of a studio, who persuaded the commissioner to take it seriously.”

  R.J. slammed the paper on the desk. “And did the head of the studio happen to mention my name?”

  “Yes. But she didn’t have to. R.J., your words made headlines in Hong Kong, Johannesburg, Buenos Aires, Bangkok—You got them one hell of a lot of publicity with that one.” He sighed again. “Then, when Lieutenant Kates of the New York police contacts us about the death of Murray Belcher and tells us you are the main suspect—”

  “That son-of-a-bitch,” spat out R.J.

  Portillo looked mildly curious. “Which one?”

  “Both of ’em. So you think I killed the lawyer as a warning and then started sending notes?”

  “I do not think any such thing, hijo,” Portillo said with a hurt look.

  “But you’re getting a lot of pressure to act like you think it, right? Political pressure from a major contributor to city political campaigns—say, the head of a studio, for instance?”

  Portillo sighed again. “Yes. You would not believe the amount of political pressure the head of a studio can apply nowadays.” He pointed his finger at R.J. and dropped the thumb, pow. “I think you have made a very bad enemy there.”

  R.J. grinned, but it wasn’t funny. “You’re wrong about that. The fact is, she doesn’t care if I stop breathing or win the lottery. But if she could get me arrested for threatening this picture it would generate one hell of a lot of publicity. Probably enough to make sure the goddamned thing is a hit.”

  Portillo shook his head. “And so Janine Wright threatened herself so she could blame you? That’s a very obscure motive, R.J. I would have a hell of a time selling that one.”

  “I’m not saying she threatened herself, Uncle Hank. Have you ever met her?”

  “I have had the pleasure,” he said. “She is something of a dragon.”

  “She’s the biggest goddamned bitch who ever lived,” R.J. said, “and I’ve known some doozies. She wouldn’t have to threaten herself. You’d have to take a number and stand in line to kill that woman. Hell, I’ll bet she has a special In basket on her desk, just for death threats.”


  “That may be,” said Portillo, “but we are taking this one seriously.”

  “So am I. What time is your return flight?”

  Portillo blinked. “Seven A.M. tomorrow. Why?”

  “I’m going back with you.”

  “That’s not necessary right now, R.J.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” said R.J. “I’m sick of this, Uncle Hank. Three weeks I’ve been accused of poisoning a lawyer and now writing these damn notes. I’ve had it. If the only thing the cops in New York and L.A. can agree on is that I’m the kind of slimy coward who does that stuff then I’ll just have to solve this myself.”

  “Hijo—” Portillo said, but R.J. didn’t let him speak.

  “There’s more,” he told the older man, and his stomach lurched as he said it. “One of the cast and crew that’s being threatened is Casey.”

  * * *

  The flight was a long one. It stopped twice along the way and fought head winds the whole time. Portillo slept half the time but R.J. could not. He had not slept much the night before the flight, either, and that made two nights in a row.

  R.J. was mad. It was not a kick-the-chair-and-say-dammit kind of mad, either. It was a slow, steady rage, a smoldering fury that made him grind his teeth and hiss a lot.

  He was mad at Uncle Hank for suspecting him, even for a moment, of being the kind of pimple who would write anonymous death threats. He was mad at the LAPD for being dumb enough to make Uncle Hank suspect him. And he was mad at Janine Wright, madder than he’d ever been at anyone else ever before. He hoped with all his heart that whoever was making the threats was really good, and that they would take out Janine Wright before R.J.’s plane landed.

  And then he was mad at Casey, too, and that hurt the most. Because if your house needs painting and your lover is a house-painter, you ought to mention it to him. And Casey had not mentioned the death threats. Hadn’t asked him to look into it. That was what he did, damn it, and she hadn’t thought enough of him to tell him. She hadn’t even thought their relationship was important enough that he would care if she was in danger? If anything ever happened to Casey, if she somehow got in the way of a killer, just because she was involved in this goddamned farce—

  R.J. ground his teeth again. He couldn’t even think about what he’d do if that happened. Probably kill Janine Wright himself.

  R.J. fumed about it until his jaw hurt. But there was nothing he could do until they landed, except snarl at the flight attendant, which he did.

  They were somewhere over New Mexico when something completely unexpected happened: R.J. fell asleep.

  He had been staring out the window and grinding his teeth, trying not to think about anything but the scenery, when somehow …

  He was standing at the back of a huge room, more like a cave. There were hundreds of people in front of him and he couldn’t see what they were looking at because they were standing so tight together, all in the way, but he knew there was a long dark box up at the front there and he knew what was in the box and he knew why they were all there.

  It was Casey’s funeral.

  All the huge crowd were mourners, and they all had an official badge that let them get close enough to look down into the coffin and see Casey. And R.J. didn’t have a badge and so he couldn’t get close enough, no matter how hard he struggled and pushed to get up there.

  And he struggled and pushed harder and harder, because he knew she wasn’t dead, and if he could only get to her he could save her. But they wouldn’t let him close and as he pushed harder a bunch of them grabbed his arms and pinned him.

  “‘Who the hell are you?” they demanded.

  “It’s me, I’m R.J.,” he said, trying to break free. He had to save her!

  “What are you to her?” they demanded. “Where’s your badge?” And he saw now that they all had a word on their badges: MOTHER, FATHER, TEACHER, BEST FRIEND.

  He struggled away from them, the way you struggle in a dream, with slow and weak movements that don’t do anything. But he had to get to Casey! “Let me go! I can save her, let me go!”

  “You can’t save her. It’s too late,” they said, and started to shake him.

  “I can save her! Please, let me through!”

  But the crowd shook him and tossed him around like a beach ball.

  “You can’t get close without a badge,” one of them told him and then tossed him high in the air. He could look down and see Casey in her coffin, so pale and still. Then the crowd grabbed him again.

  “Please, I can save her, I’m R.J.!”

  “R.J.!” the crowd chanted “R.J.! R.J.! R.J.—!” And as they chanted they were lowering the coffin into the endlessly deep, black hole—

  “R.J.! For the love of God, will you please wake up?” Henry Portillo said, shaking R.J. by both arms. “We have landed.”

  R.J. blinked. His eyes were full of sand. It felt like his head was, too.

  Around him on the plane the aisles were filling up. The people were starting to shove and whack one another with suitcases. It made R.J. homesick for Manhattan. He stretched and tried to come fully awake, but he couldn’t stand up to stretch properly, and he was slow to shake off the cold lump of terror in his stomach the dream had left behind.

  “We’ll go over to the set later,” Portillo said. “They are doing all studio interiors this week.”

  “L.A. is great,” R.J. grumbled. “Even the cops know the movie jargon.”

  Portillo laughed. “Does that mean you don’t want to stop at the studio, R.J.?”

  R.J. shook his head. On top of the last shreds of the dream he felt a thrill of anticipation. In a little while he might actually see Casey. “No,” he said. “Let’s stop at the goddamn studio.”

  Portillo nodded. “I have some paperwork to catch up on first. I’ll drop you at home to finish your nap, then come get you in a few hours.”

  CHAPTER 15

  They arrived at Portillo’s small house in the East Valley and carried their bags in. “You know where your room is, hijo,” Portillo said, dumping his own garment bag onto the couch. “I will see you in a few hours.”

  R.J. watched him go, swallowed by memories. The old place hadn’t changed much. Same furniture. Same slightly musty smell of leather, gun oil, and Mexican spices.

  R.J. went down the short hall to the back of the house. Memories closed in on him in the dimness. This had once been his second home. After his father died and Belle had been too busy he had spent a lot of nights here, just because there was somebody here who gave a damn. It had made him laugh a lot of times over the years, the thought that an L.A. cop had more time to spare for him than his mother.

  Well, that was all in the past. He’d worked it out and forgotten about it a long time ago. But the sight and smell of this hall could still bring some of it back.

  R.J. pushed open the door to “his” room. And then he just stood in the doorway for a minute. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He even forgot that he was holding his suitcase.

  The same tattered, quilted bedspread was on the bed. And over next to the window stood the same battered black bookcase. With a stack of his old books on it.

  And his old baseball glove.

  R.J. dropped his bag and picked up the glove and looked at it in the afternoon light coming through the glass. Just outside that window, in the backyard, he had learned how to throw a knuckle ball. How to catch the ball and whip it over to first. Had even practiced sliding in to home.

  Until the maid at his house had complained about the ground-in dirt and grass stains. Then Belle had pulled one of her rare mother routines and told him to keep his damn pants clean. No more sliding.

  R.J. sat on the bed and smiled. Because after that—

  So many memories. Just from a kid’s damn ball glove. Well, hell, maybe he was a murder suspect, and maybe Casey wouldn’t talk to him, but this was a homecoming for him, too.

  He closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. It was all too…

/>   “Wake up, R.J.,” came the voice, and R.J. was jolted out of a sleep so deep he wasn’t sure what his name was. Henry Portillo was bending over him, shaking one shoulder with a hard hand.

  “What time is it?” R.J. asked, slowly coming back to life.

  Portillo straightened, shaking his head. “Hijo, you might as well ask, what year is it? I phoned twice from my office and you didn’t hear.”

  R.J. sat up, his whole body creaking. “I guess I was really out of it.”

  Portillo cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps you are too tired to go to the studio…?”

  The thought of seeing Casey again sent a jolt through him and before he could even think of doing it he was standing. “I’m awake,” he said, not too convincingly. “Let’s go.”

  Portillo was amazed to see him jump up so fast, but they went out to the car, R.J. shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs.

  Andromeda Studios was in a far corner of the San Fernando Valley. The main buildings had once been an aircraft assembly plant and the place still looked like somebody was making machines there. Machines, instead of movies. Which was kind of appropriate, because the way Andromeda made its movies was more industrial than artistic.

  Andromeda had clawed its way up in town as the studio that made all the copies. If another studio had a hit movie about a German shepherd getting elected senator, six weeks later Andromeda had one out about a collie in the White House.

  If Paramount bought a script about aliens who looked like vegetables, Andromeda dashed one out about space monsters who looked like fruit.

  The movies were rushed, awful, and the concept of doing business that way was based on the idea that the public was pathetically dumb. But it worked. Andromeda spent almost nothing, paying starvation wages and ignoring all the unions. Then they flooded the video market with their cheap copies, and in a few short years, by a process that could only work in Hollywood, they’d become legitimate. They had no hits, nobody could remember one specific movie they’d made, but they had arrived; they were a major player.

  And then, finally, the hits began to come. Three years ago they got their first Oscar. And in the last two years, Andromeda put three movies on the list of top ten in box-office receipts.