"I thought you said it was based on what happened in Hollywood last year?" Remo said, confused.
"It is."
"Those maniacs weren't IRA. They were Eblans."
"And Eblans are Arabs, and Arab villains are a big no-no in movies. You can only use white guys. We've replaced the Arabs with a fringe IRA group led by a fey Englishman."
"That's insane," Remo said. "An Englishman is the last person on earth a fringe faction of the IRA would listen to."
"Hey, Hollywood only reflects reality," Quintly Tortilli argued. "Therefore, anything produced in Hollywood must be reality. Therefore, the Arab terrorists must really have been IRA. Maybe they had suntans."
Remo had known it couldn't last. Tortilli was starting to sound like Tortilli again. Blinking wearily, he turned away from the director.
"Here's some Hollywood advice," Remo said, eyes firmly on the wing. "Every second of screen time doesn't have to be filled with dialogue."
Tortilli scrunched his already scrunched face. "Is that a polite way of saying shut up?"
Remo didn't answer. Face concerned, he stared unseeing out the small window.
Quintly Tortilli eventually grew bored.
Getting up from his seat, he wandered up the aisle. He found a stewardess to talk to for the rest of the trip to Los Angeles. When he asked for her number, he told the woman it was all in the name of research. He was thinking of doing a movie where the main character was a female flight attendant. Tortilli was sure it would make a ton of money.
THE RED STUDIO JEEP with its white-striped cloth canopy roof tore off Fifty-seventh Street onto Broadway. Driving crazily through the dodging crowd, it came to a screeching halt in the middle of Times Square.
The vehicle had been built with no doors. Through the wide opening behind the driver's seat flew two frightened blurs. The pair of men slid to a flesh-raking stop at the edge of the crowd. Several bruised hands reached down to help the shaking men to their feet.
The Master of Sinanju emerged from the jeep. "These are the last," Chiun announced darkly. He had enlisted a driver to help him locate the rest of the missing extras. Luck proved to be on his side. The extras had all been located in the vicinity of six very similar trucks that were parked all around the studio lot.
There was a total of only nine men. All of them seemed afraid to move away from one another. The two new arrivals blended in with the huddled group.
Chiun scanned the line of men, turning with fresh disapproval to Arlen Duggal.
"Why are there not more?" he demanded of the assistant director. "I have been to the vile city after which this fabrication is patterned." He nodded to the mock-up of New York. "Hordes fill its fetid streets."
"This is after the first bombing," Arlen explained as he made some quick notes on his shooting script. "Panic's gripped the city. Most people are afraid to go out."
Chiun allowed a nod of bland acceptance. Padding over, he took up a sentry post behind the A.D., hands thrust deep inside his kimono sleeves. He glowered at the crowd.
Finishing a notation, Arlen looked up from his script.
"Okay, we've wasted enough time already," he called to cast and crew, "so I want this thing done fast and I want it done right."
"Or else," Chiun interjected from behind him.
Arlen flinched, then forged ahead. "We've gotten strong first takes the last couple of days, so let's try to nail it down out of the gate."
"Or the next nails you will see will be those being hammered into your coffins," Chiun said menacingly.
Arlen couldn't take this much longer. Everyone's nerves had been rubbed raw by this maniac screenwriter. The backseat driving and constant threats were already more than he could bear. It was worse than if they'd hired Kevin Costner to star.
It would help morale if they could get the old man off the set, even if it was just for an hour or two. But his vanity was such that he didn't trust Arlen alone for a min-
A thought popped into the assistant director's head.
"People," he muttered, nodding. He wheeled to the tiny Korean. "Mr. Chiun, you're right," he said excitedly, snapping his fingers.
Chiun's face was bland.
"Of course I am," the Master of Sinanju sniffed. "What is it that I am correct about this time?"
"People. We do need more on the streets. A bomb scare wouldn't keep everyone inside. Not in New York. The bravest, wisest, handsomest people would still go outside."
"Perhaps," Chiun admitted, stroking his sliver of beard. "If I needed to."
"Exactly!" the A.D. enthused. "You're wasted behind the scenes. You belong in front of the camera!"
Chiun's hazel eyes sparkled. "Do you really think so?"
"Absolutely. Wardrobe!"
One of the wardrobe mistresses hurried forward. "I want Mr. Chiun outfitted with an appropriate costume," Arlen insisted. "I want him to look perfect, so be sure to take your time," he stressed.
"Is there something wrong with your eye?" Chiun questioned.
Arlen stopped his frantic winking. "I was merely blinded by your dazzling charisma," he covered quickly.
On the sidewalk, the sweating extras seemed thrilled at the thought of Chiun leaving. All nine simultaneously glanced at their watches.
"I understand." The wardrobe woman nodded.
"Sir?" She directed Chiun toward the jeep he'd commandeered.
The Master of Sinanju was only too delighted to go.
"I cannot wait to tell Remo," the old man said, beaming. "I have been discovered."
As Chiun got in the back, the woman climbed in next to the driver. A moment later, they were zipping back in the direction from which Chiun had come mere minutes before.
"Thank God," Arlen exhaled as the jeep vanished down Fifty-seventh. "Next film I work on? No writer," he vowed.
Script in hand, he hurried over to his assistant.
REMO KNEW they were dangerously close to Hollywood airspace when the copilot and navigator came back to discuss the scripts they'd each written. Tortilli took their numbers and shooed them back to the cockpit.
Not only did the director arrange to have their plane land immediately upon arrival over Los Angeles International Airport, but he'd also used the phone on the jet to call ahead for transportation. A long black limousine was waiting for them on the tarmac. They were speeding away from the sleek aircraft less than thirty seconds after they'd deplaned.
"Any news about Taurus?" Tortilli asked the driver.
"Taurus?" the limo driver said. "Are they still in business?"
In the backseat, Tortilli glanced to Remo. "Guess that means it hasn't blown up yet, huh?" Hope tripped in Remo's chest.
"Put on the radio," he commanded the driver.
"There's one back there, sir," the man offered. Remo looked down on the row of knobs and buttons arranged on the seat panel. It looked more complicated than the cockpit of the plane he'd just left behind. He saw a TV screen set into the console. Remo opted for this over the radio.
He flipped a switch. A panel opened over an ice bucket. He hit another button. The sunroof slid open, revealing sunny, blue California sky.
"Just put on the damn radio," Remo ordered sourly.
The driver did as he was told.
There was nothing about Taurus Studios on any of the local stations. If a bomb had leveled the place, it would have merited a bulletin. He listened for only a few minutes.
"Shut it off," Remo insisted, sinking glumly back into the plush seat.
His heart thrummed an anxious chorus. As he tapped nervously on the seat, his eyes alighted on the car's phone.
He could have called Smith. Under any other circumstances, would have called him without hesitation. But thanks to Chiun, he couldn't. This was all his fault.
"Old egomaniac," he muttered to himself.
"What?"
The voice drew him from his trance. When he glanced at Quintly Tortilli, his gaze was immediately pulled beyond the director. There was a car parked next to them.