Suddenly one of the Japanese extras clutched his chest. Red fluid gushed from between his fingers. Remo floated to the base of the sandhill and floated around it. He slipped up behind the man just as he squeezed off a second shot.
Remo took him by the back of the neck. He tried to bring him to his feet, but found his arms were only long enough to bring him up to eye level. The man topped him by three heads.
"Give me that," Remo growled, grabbing the weapon. It looked homemade, like an antique.
"What's your problem, friend?" the man demanded.
"I saw you shoot that man."
"Good for you. Now, if you'll give it back, I'll go shoot a few more."
"This isn't how we settle union disputes in America."
"Union! You don't think. . ." The man started laughing. "Oh, this is rich," he burst out.
"What's so funny?" Remo asked. He let the man drop and broke open the weapon. It had a stainless-steel drum magazine on top. Instead of bullets, it contained glass marblelike objects. They sloshed with reddish liquid.
"You are. You think I really shot that guy. That's an air gun."
"A BB rifle can kill if you hit a soft spot," Remo said, lifting out one of the marbles for a closer look.
"Be careful with that. The prop master will have my hide if you break it. That thing is handcrafted. Only sixteen like it in the world."
One of the Japanese extras came down the sandhill. "Sunny Joe. Why you stop?" he called. Remo saw the splash of red that marred his blouse front.
"Wait a minute," Remo blurted out. "You're Sunny Joe?"
"That's what they call me. So who are you?"
"Remo. "
The man called Sunny Joe seemed startled by the name.
"What's your last name?" he asked.
"Durock," Remo said after a pause.
Sunny Joe looked disappointed with Remo's answer. That expression gave way to an annoyed one.
"How the hell long you been in this business, son?" he barked. "Not to know an air gun when you see one?"
"Sorry," Remo said. "With all the union troubles, I guess I jumped to a conclusion."
"No harm done, I guess," Sunny Joe relented. He searched Remo's face as if looking for his soul. "And I can use a paleface. Half these damn Japs can't speak English. Come on. We're doing practice bullet hits. Let's see what kind of moves you got."
Remo followed the man up the sandhill.
"The thing you gotta remember, Remo," he was saying, "is that Bronzini likes to be as realistic as possible. You stand right here. I'll drop back and pop you one. When you take the hit, don't fall, corkscrew. Pretend you're being hit by a sledgehammer, not a bullet. We want real impact up on that screen."
Remo shrugged as Sunny Joe loped back to his shelter. He was a tall man, Remo saw. Nearly seven feet tall, and while he looked imposing, Remo noticed that he had lanky limbs. He was sixty if he was a day, but he moved like a man ten years younger.
Sunny Joe dropped into a crouch and took aim. The gun coughed. Remo's acute vision perceived the red sphere zip toward him. He set his feet.
But Remo had been trained for years to move out of the way of bullets. Even harmless ones. Reflexively he sidestepped the bullet. To cover himself, he twisted and hit the sand. He looked up.
Sunny Joe lumbered up to him, anger on his face. "What the hell happened?" he bellowed.
"I corkscrewed."
"You corkscrewed before the round struck. I didn't see the blood splatter. What's the matter with you? Bucking for an Oscar?"
"Sorry," Remo said, brushing sand off his clothes. "Try again?"
"Right. This time, wait for the round."
As they returned to their marks, a trio of helicopters clattered overhead. Their noise filled the valley floor like jangling scrap metal.
"Damn," Sunny Joe muttered. "They're gonna be doing that all through production. Choppers from the Marine Air Station, I'll bet. Joyboys with nothing better to do than overfly the shoot. They're probably asking themselves which tiny speck is Bronzini. Damn fools."
"They'll get tired of it sooner or later," Remo ventured.
"Sure, they will. But that's just the Mariues. There's an Army proving ground a few miles north, and ol' Luke Air Force Range is due east of here. We'll have F-16's up the wazoo from now till Valentine's Day."
"You don't sound like you enjoy your work much."
"Work, hell, I was retired until the Japs came along. I'm over sixty, man. This industry feeds off youth, even in the stunt profession. I came back to the reservation to wither away, so to speak. Then Bronzini came along and asked to use this part of the reservation."
"This is Indian land?"
"Damn straight. Bronzini has been pulling strings everywhere to mount this production. Had everyone eating out of his hand. Until he slammed into the chief. The chief knew who he was, of course, but wouldn't let on. He said part of the price of letting the reservation be used was my participation. I'm a proud man, but I got this business in my blood, so I said what the hell. I took it. Maybe it'll lead to something."
"You don't look Indian."
"Not many Indians look Indian anymore, if you want to know the truth of it."
"What tribe?"
"You never studied them in school, I'll tell you that much. We're practically extinct. My Indian name is Sunny Joe. It's kind of a tribal nickname, I guess you'd have to say. My legal name's Bill Roam. But call me Sunny Joe. Everyone does. That's Sunny with a U, not an O. Okay, get on your mark."
Remo took his position. This time, when the pellet gun coughed, he closed his eyes. The bullet took him square in the chest. He twisted, fell, and rolled.
"Better," Sunny Joe called out to him. "Now, one of you others give it a try."
None of the Japanese on the sandhill moved.
Sunny Joe got up from his marksman's crouch and tried to make his desires known with sign language. Finally he took one of the Japanese by the scruff of the neck and marched him to the mark.
Remo thought the Japanese extra was going to punch Sunny Joe in the stomach. He didn't look happy to be manhandled. Remo decided that he was just touchy.
He settled back to watch, thinking that he had a lot to learn if he was going to pass as a stunt professional. Bartholomew Bronzini was surprised to see that the usual IATSE protesters were not picketing the entrance gate to the Indian-reservation location site. He wondered if it had anything to do with the upended tank and the crushed station wagon.
He horsed his Harley around the wreckage and raced up the winding road to the base camp. He didn't bother stopping in front of the production tent. He slammed the Harley through the flap and crashed into a table.
Bronzini leapt free of the bike before it slid into the tent wall. The candy-striped fabric tore with a shivery rip. But no one noticed that, least of all Jiro Isuzu.
Isuzu found himself staring into the wrathful Neapolitan visage of Bartholomew Bronzini, the Bronze Bambino. And there was nothing baby-faced about him today.
"What the hell is going on?" Bronzini thundered.
"Prease to speak in respectfur tone," Jiro said. "I am producer. "
"You're the fucking line producer," Bronzini snarled. "I want to speak to the executive producer."
"That Mr. Nishitsu. Not possible to speak to him. In Tokyo. "
"They don't have phones in Tokyo? Or doesn't he speak English either?"
"Mr. Nishitsu in secrusion. Not a young man. He visit set once camera rorr. You wirr meet him then."
"Yeah? Well, you deliver him a message for me."
"Gradry. What is message?"
"I don't like being conned."
"Not know that word."
"Lied to. You understand 'lie'?"
"Prease to exprain," Jiro Isuzu said stiffly. Bronzini noticed he was not backing down. Bronzini respected that. He lowered his voice, although still angry.
"I was just on the phone to Kurosawa."