Bartholomew Bronzini left the Yuma police station in smoldering silence. He was escorted out by a trio of Nishitsu Corporation Lawyers. Jiro Isuzu led them.
At the bottom of the steps, Jiro Isuzu turned to Bronzini and said, "Authorities wirr not make trouble now. Don't want to roose movie. Also, promise to use porice in firm." He pronounced it "fir-em."
"Why didn't you let me speak up back there? I wanted to tell my story."
"Not necessary. Situation under contror now. Porice brame picketers."
"Hey, I had a part in that little fracas. I got in their faces. I'm as much responsible for what happened as anybody. And what the hell did you think you were doing by ordering your goons to open fire like that?"
"Your rife in danger."
"The hell it was. I was decking them reft and light -I mean left and right."
"Action necessary to save your rife. Also to discourage picketers."
"They had a right to picket. This is America.'
"Arso this is Japanese production. No bad pubricity must attach itself to our work."
"No bad publicity! Four IATSE protesters are dead. You think that won't get in the newspapers?"
"Porice have agreed to hold suspects untir firm complete. "
"What? You can't hide a thing like this forever."
"Not forever. For two week."
"Two weeks!" Bronzini exploded. "That's our shooting schedule? It's im-fuckin'-possible. Pardon my French."
"We do outdoor scenes first," Isuzu explained. "Break production into nine units, arr shoot at once. Other actors fry in to do their work. This way, we come in under budget in ress than arrotted time. Now prease forrow. "
"Where to?"
"Other probrem need fixing. Prease forrow van." The Nishitsu team loaded into the waiting van. Bronzini straddled his motorcycle, waiting for them to start.
"This isn't right. None of it," he muttered.
But when the van started off, he followed it through the gridlike streets, out of the center of town, and along a dusty desert road. They were leaving the city proper. The high battlements of the Chocolate Mountains loomed in the distance. On either side of the road, stucco and exposed-beam houses gave way to endless beds of lettuce fields, one of Yuma's principal crops. In the distance a chevron of F/A 1-18's etched silent contrails against the cloudless sky.
Then the lettuce beds gave way to scrub desert and sandhills. The hardtop road stopped but the van kept going. It wound in and around the sandhills and Bronzini wondered where they were going.
They passed through a chain-link fence guarded by Nishitsu personnel and up a dusty road. Behind a cluster of hills lay a group of candy-striped tents. Bronzini recognized it as a location base camp. But what was it doing way out here in the desert?
The van turned into the base camp and parked beside a row of Nishitsu RV's and Ninja jeeps.
"What's this all about, Jiro?" Bronzini demanded as he dismounted.
"Base camp for firm."
"No shit. Isn't this a little out-of-the-way?"
"We are firming in desert."
"You are what!" Bronzini ground out. "What are you going to do, paint the sand white and pretend it's snow? I got news for you, it won't wash. And I won't stand for working on a stupid backlot street set either. We film in the city with real buildings and local people as extras. My films are known for their authenticity."
"Crimax of firm set in desert. We wirr shoot it here." Bronzini threw up his hands.
"Wait a minute, wait one little minute here. I want to see the script."
"Script sent yesterday. You no get?"
"My agent got."
"Oh," Jiro said. "One moment, prease." He went to one of the RV's and returned with a copy of the script. Bronzini snatched it from his hands. He looked at the cover. The title was visible in a cutout window.
"Red Christmas! What happened to Johnny's Christmas Spirit?"
"Title change in rewrite."
Bronzini flipped through the pages until he found some dialogue featuring his character, whose name was Mac. The first words he came to were "Up yours, you Christless commie bastards!"
"What!" Bronzini shouted. "This isn't my script."
"It is rewrite," Isuzu said calmly. "Character names are same. Some other things changed."
"But where's the little boy, Johnny? I don't see any lines for him."
"That character die on page eight."
"Dies! He's the focus of the story. My character is just the catalyst," Bronzini shouted. He pointed to a page. "And what's this crap here? This tank fight?"
"Johnny die in tank fight. Very heroic scene. Very sad. Defends home from Red Chinese invader."
"That wasn't in my script either."
"Story improved. Now about Red Chinese invasion of Yuma. Set on Christmas Eve. Much tinser. Many carors sung. Very much rike American Christmas story. It very beautifur."
Bronzini couldn't believe his eyes. He was reading a scene in which Christmas carolers were blown apart by Chinese shock troops throwing hand grenades.
"The fuck. Why don't you just call it Grundy IV and be done with it?"
"Nishitsu not own Grundy character. We try to buy. Owner refuse to serr. It important you not wear headband in this firm. Rawsuits."
"That's the least of your problems, because I'm not doing this piece of regurgitation. If I wanted to do Grundy IV, I would have signed for Grundy IV. Savvy?"
"You sign for Christmas story. We wirr firm same."
"No chance, sake breath."
Jiro Isuzu's blank eyes narrowed at Bronzini's epithet. Bronzini raised a placating hand. "Okay, okay, okay, I take it back. I'm sorry. I got carried away. But this isn't what we agreed to."
"You sign contract," Isuzu told him blandly. "If there is something in contract you not agree to, take up with rawyer tomorrow. Today you talk to Indian chief. Make him agree to arrow firming in varrey."
"Indian chief?"
"Rand needed in Indian reservation. Onry place to firm. Chief say yes, onry if you ask personarry. We go to meet him now."
"Oh, this just gets better and better."
"I am happy you say so. Cooperation essentiar to maintain shooting schedule."
Jiro Isuzu smiled as Bartholomew Bronzini leaned against the van and set his broad forehead against its sun-heated side. He shut his eyes.
"How could I get into a situation like this?" he said hollowly. "I'm the world's number-one superstar."
"And Nishitsu soon to be world's number-one firm company," Izusu said. "You wirr have new, greater career with us. American pubric not care for you anymore. You wirr talk to chief now?"
"All right, all right. I've always been as good as my word. Or my signature."
"We knew that."
"I'll just bet you did. But as soon as I can find a phone, I'm firing my agent."
Chapter 5
Most babies are pink at birth. A few are as red as a crab.
Dr. Harold W. Smith was blue, He had blue eyes, which the doctor who had delivered him did not consider unusual. All human babies, like kittens, are born with blue eyes. Blue skin was another matter. At birth, Harold Smith-he didn't become a Ph.D. until much later in life, although it was a matter open to debate among his few friends-was as blue as a robin's egg.
The Vermont obstetrician told Smith's mother that she had given birth to a blue baby. Mrs. Nathan Smith politely informed him that she understood all babies cried at birth. She was confident her Harold's disposition would improve.
"I don't mean that he's a sad baby," the doctor said. "In fact he's the most well-behaved baby I've ever seen. I was referring to his medical condition."