Even as the bodies fell, Remo swirled past them and into the midst of the other three Arabs.
Remo made short work of them. A toe caught a gun barrel, flipping it up through the forehead of a soldier. An elbow cracked a rib cage, collapsing it to jelly. Remo slapped the jaw of the last soldier up into his frontal lobe. As the man dropped to the hot concrete, Remo was already spinning back to the Taurus Studios car.
"What was with them?" Bindle asked, alarmed.
Remo's face was unhappy. "They know Khobar's missing."
"Cobalt?" Bindle asked. "Who the hell is Cobalt?"
"No. Kobe's arm," Marmelstein explained to his partner, deeply concerned. "It's missing. Did they cut someone's arm off for stealing?" he asked Remo worriedly.
"Hey, I don't remember approving any Pauley Shore movie," Bindle added, perplexed.
Remo rolled his eyes heavenward. "Get in the car, you mushheads," he said with more patience than he felt.
As he climbed in behind the wheel, he prayed that whoever the two executives had paid to kidnap and then murder al Khobar wasn't as stupid as them. Bindle and Marmelstein were just dumb enough to kill first and then try to interrogate the corpse later.
Leaving the bodies of the five Arabs to bake in the hot sun, Remo headed the studio car back out toward La Cienaga.
Dull eyes supremely indifferent, the three camels watched them drive away.
Chapter 27
Persuasion wasn't so hard, Reggio Cagliari knew. It was only a matter of having the right tools for the job. Reggio was never caught without the right tools. In fact he had all he needed in his hands right now.
One pair of pliers. A hammer. A handful of Sheetrock nails. Another pair of pliers was in his back pocket in case the first pair broke, which they sometimes did when he was working.
That was it.
It had been easy enough to nab Mr. Koala. Reggio caught him with a mallet to the back of the head when he stumbled on the Arab snooping alone outside the old Mammoth Studios lot.
The other Arabs were gone from the area. Reggio knew why. Their work must have been complete and they were bugging out. The evidence of that was all around.
While he loaded the terrorist into the trunk of his car, he saw the wires running in and around the big soundstages and into the office buildings all around the motion-picture studio. He'd seen the same wires wrapping around every other studio, some even before the occupation. Taurus had rented tons of space.
More than they would ever need for a single movie. Even Reggio knew that. But the Hollywood bigwigs had been too busy counting the rental cash to bother to find out what Koala and his A-rab cronies were cooking up under their own roofs.
Just to make sure, Reggio took a peek inside one of the empty soundstages. It was as he had expected. Koala must have been finishing up his last inspection tour. The last for anyone in this town. Ever. Reggio was glad he'd made this final deal. He'd take his money from Taurus and head off to South America. He'd go somewhere Don Vaggliosi never heard of.
First things first, however. He still had a little more persuading to do.
"Did you get that one?" Reggio asked. He was chewing on one of the cannoli he'd brought from his office. Powdered sugar dusted his dimpled chin. The pastel-pink bakery box lay open on the crate to which al Khobar was attached.
"This one? Yes, yes. Please." The voice was desperate. Pleading.
"Didja initial near da X?" Reggio questioned, taking the paper in one big hand. He blew the sugar off.
"Yes!"
Reggio inspected the paper. It appeared to be in order. He slid it in with the rest inside the manila envelope Bindle and Marmelstein had given him.
"Will you please let me go now? Please?" The words were slurred.
He was begging. Reggio liked it when they begged.
The portly man looked down at the terrified form of Assola al Khobar.
The Saudi terrorist was bleeding profusely from the mouth. A river of crimson poured down over his chin, dribbling to the concrete floor of the shed. The faint odor of manure mixed with some kind of ammonia-based cleaner was in the air.
The blood was really just a special effect. Reggio knew so much blood wouldn't come from a couple of small puncture wounds. Most of it was blood mixed in with buckets of saliva. It looked horrible, but was relatively harmless. The victim never thought so, however.
Reggio felt good. He was sitting on a stool near the kneeling form of al Khobar.
The terrorist was bent over a wooden crate. His lower lip had been pulled out as far as it could reasonably go without tearing. Four of the nails Reggio had brought with him had been pounded through Assola's lip and into the wood of the crate below. They successfully prevented the terrorist from moving. There were a few rotten teeth laying on the crate, as well, their bloody root ganglia dripping onto the wood. This had been the reason for the pliers. Where lips sometimes failed, teeth always worked.
When he was a young up-and-comer in the Pubescio Family, Reggio had had a habit of nailing people's lips to things. His affection for that particular part of the human body was what earned him his moniker "Lips." In recent years he'd gotten away from what had made him a kind of local legend. In a way it was nice to go through the old routine again. Even if it was only a one-shot deal.
"Gimme a minute here, Mr. Koala," Reggio said politely.
One thing everyone who knew anything about Reggio Cagliari knew. He liked to be certain of things.
Dusting the powdered sugar off his hands, Reggio fumbled at his front pocket. He pulled out the check from Bindle and Marmelstein, which had been the first thing he'd given Assola to sign.
Behind him a lion growled. He glanced over. There were several of the animals on the other side of a prisonlike cage door. Only one had taken a real interest in the activity going on inside the shed. Its nose was sniffing curiously at the bars as Reggio turned back to the all-important check. Reggio checked the signature carefully. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but it seemed okay. He stuffed the check back into his pocket. "We're all set here, Mr. Koala," he said. "Sorry about all this." He shrugged as he passed a fat hand over the pulled teeth. "Business and all."
His work done, Reggio glanced around for the hammer he'd brought in along with the rest of his meager supply of equipment. He thought he'd left it on the crate near Koala's extracted teeth. It wasn't there.
Grunting, Reggio leaned one hand on the crate, careful not to touch any of the blood-and-saliva mixture.
Nope, the hammer wasn't there. He was beginning to think he'd left it in his truck.
"I can get you more than that," al Khobar said. His voice was close to Reggio. His tongue lisped through the newly formed gaps in his gum line.
"Thanks. I'm all set here, Mr. Koala," Reggio said.
Of course it wasn't in his truck. He'd used it to pound the nails into the Arab's lip.
Reggio exhaled loudly. A puff of confectioner's sugar blew from his large lower lip.
It must have fallen to the floor somehow.
With an effort Reggio got to his knees. They ached from the strain. He felt around the side of the crate.
Nothing.
There was really no place the hammer could have fallen. And wouldn't he have heard it?
"You Americans are all the same. Fools motivated solely by money."
Al Khobar sounded more confident now. Even with the nails which still fixed him in place. His voice came from above Reggio as the big man crawled on all fours around the side of the small wooden crate.
"Yeah, we all gotta make a living, right, Mr. Koala?" Reggio Cagliari asked, red faced.
"Death is my living," al Khobar hissed.
Reggio looked up in time to see the grimace of fierce intensity on the face of Assola al Khobar. He also saw his missing hammer. It was in the terrorist's hand and was even now in the process of swinging down toward Reggio's own head.