"Partners should always be honest," Marmelstein said.
"Right," said Bindle.
"Good. Now who can we rip off?" Marmelstein asked. "Did the new incorporation come in?" asked Bindle.
"Yes," said Marmelstein. "Just today. So now we have a new corporate structure."
"I hope we keep this one longer than a week," Bindle said. "I always have trouble remembering the names of whatever corporation we're supposed to be each week."
"Just leave the business side of it to me," Marmelstein said. "You know, I wish I knew what that Barry Schweid was up to."
"Yeah," said Bindle. "He's got some nerve going to another producer."
"Especially after we produced his other movies. Teeth. Space Battle. Distant Encounters of the First Kind."
"Don't forget On Silver Lake," Bindle said.
"That's right. We've done some good ones." Marmelstein said. "A few more and we might even think about stopping selling cocaine."
"I don't know about that," said Bindle. "There's a lot of money in cocaine."
"Are we interested in money or creating enduring cinematic art?" Marmelstein asked. He pronounced it "cinemackic."
The two partners looked at each other for a few long seconds as the question hung in the air, unanswered. Finally, they nodded.
"Right. Money," they said in unison.
The telephone rang inside Marmelstein's desk. The desk was a large pink Italian marble slab, resting at both ends on two slices of highly-varnished wood cut from redwood trees. On Marmelstein's side of the desk, the redwood had been hollowed out so that a file cabinet could fit into each side of the pedestal.
There was nothing in the file cabinet except the telephone. Marmelstein thought it was tacky to have a telephone on the desk. He had gotten that idea when he first came to Hollywood and went into a producer's office and there was no telephone on the desk. It was the only real producer's office he had ever been in and he assumed that all producers spurned the telephone, especially since he had never been able to reach any of them by phone. If he had been able to read, he would have seen in the local press the week after he had met the phoneless producer that the producer had been indicted for embezzlement, for diverting money to his own personal use and letting production company bills go unpaid. Among the unpaid bills was the telephone bill. His phone had been removed by Earth Mother Bell, the Hollywood phone company.
Marmelstein opened the desk drawer, but before he answered the phone, he said to Bindle, "Listen to the new name."
He lifted the receiver.
"Hello. Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Productions speaking. How may we help you?"
He smiled at Bindle. The name of the company had been carefully chosen to allow the two partners to tell people that they were with Universal and mumble the rest of the words, or that they were with MGM, short for Mammoth Global Magnificent. Every little bit helped, Marmelstein thought. And often said.
"Bruce, this is Barry Schweid. I want you to help me."
"That's what I said on the phone. 'How may we help you?' " Marmelstein said. "Right after I said Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Productions. That's our new name."
"Yeah, yeah, I know all that. I want you to come in as partners on one of my movies. Minor partners," Schweid said.
"We'll start raising money immediately," Marmelstein said. "Do story boards. Talk to directors and stars. There's still time for us to— —"
"No," Schweid said. "You're going to get an agent's cut. That's all. I already got a producer."
"What do you want us to do?"
"Negotiate for me," Schweid said. "I think this guy is screwing me."
"What do you want that he won't give?" asked Marmelstein.
"That's just it. He's giving me everything I want."
"I don't trust him," Marmelstein said.
"When I asked him for money, he said yes," Schweid said.
"He's a thief," Marmelstein said.
"I wanted gross points, he gave me gross points."
"Oh, the dirty bastard. Trying to work you over that way," Marmelstein said. "It's hard for me to believe sometimes what kind of thieves there are in this town."
"I need you two," Schweid said. "I know you're drug peddlers but you know how to negotiate."
"You've come to the right place, Barry. Just tell me what you want."
"All I want is what I got. But I don't want him to be so damn agreeable about it," Schweid said.
"We'll end that," Marmelstein promised. "When do we see this guy?"
"I'll talk to him tonight on the phone. A conference call. You guys can take over," Schweid said.
"You've got it. We'll straighten him out."
After Marmelstein hung up, he rubbed his hands together and looked at Hank Binde.
"We're back in with Schweid," he said. "He's got a producer for a movie but he doesn't trust him."
"He can trust us," Bindle said.
"That's what I told him."
"What movie?" Bindle asked.
"I don't know. He said art. Probably that Hamlock thing."
"I think it's Hamlet," Bindle said.
"Yeah. Hammerlet. With tits. I hope this guy wants to do it with tits."
"What's in it for us?" Bindle asked.
Marmelstein started to answer, then paused. "Wait," he said. "Listen, anybody can do Hammerlet, right? I mean, the screenwriter died or something and so it belongs to everybody?"
"Yeah. I think it was a play. Shakespeare. Or some name like that."
"Okay," Marmelstein said. "What we do is we get this producer away from Schweid. If that no-talent can write Hammerlock, we get can somebody else to write Hammerlock and then we take it back to that same producer. Without Schweid."
"Good thinking, Bruce," said Bindle.
"All we've got to do is queer this deal tonight," Marmelstein said.
"Right," said Bindle.
"And that shouldn't be any trouble for us at all," Marmelstein said.
"It never has been before," said Hank Bindle.
Chiun was on the balcony of their Madrid hotel room, sitting quietly, looking at the city sprawl, the buildings golden in the afternoon sun.
Remo placed a call to Smith. The operator did a lot of clicking and then reported in precise English, "I'm sorry, sir. The line is busy."
"Are you sure?" Remo said. "That line's never busy. Maybe we dialed wrong." He repeated the number.
"Just a moment," the woman said. Remo heard more clicking, and then a busy signal and then the operator's voice. "No, sir, it's busy."
"Thank you," Remo said. "I'll call back."
He hung up the phone and stood up from the sofa. Somehow a busy signal didn't seem right. In all the years with CURE, he couldn't remember Smith not answering the phone on the first ring.
A busy signal made the CURE director seem more human and Remo didn't want to deal with Smith as a human. He didn't necessarily like the bloodless, emotionless wraith he pictured in his mind, but at least he was used to Smith that way. Every time things had changed in his life, they had changed for... well, if not for the worse, at least in the direction of more disruption. He didn't want any more disruption, irritation, or aggravation.
Peace and quiet. That was what he yearned for.
"That's what I want in the world," he said as he stepped out on the balcony behind Chiun.
"A brain that works?" Chiun said.
"Please, Chiun. Don't carp. I've made a resolution to myself. From now on, I'm going to lead a simple life, clean and pure. No more trouble. I'm going to try not to fall asleep when you recite an Ung poem. When you blame it all on me because you can't finish your screenplay or your soap opera about Sinanju, I'm just going to nod and take the blame. I'm going to lead a different life. When that dingaling Dr. Pomfret starts yapping at me, I'm just going to smile. When I talk to Smith, I'm going to humor him instead of arguing. Even when you tell me those stupid stories you always tell me, I'm goin
g to listen. Really listen."
"By stupid stories, I presume you mean the wisdom of the ages, contained in the legends of Sinanju," Chiun said, without turning.
"That's right."
"The dog can promise not to bark," Chiun said, "but still he barks. Even the promise is expressed in a bark."
"Yeah?" Remo said. "Go ahead. Tell me a story. Watch me listen. Tell me about the mountain of gold. What's that about? I know you know more about it than you've been telling that twit."
"It is a terrible story. I don't want to talk about it," Chiun said.
"Awwww, please," said Remo, because he knew Chiun wanted him to.
"Really?" said Chiun. "You insist on hearing it?"
"My life wouldn't be complete without it," Remo said. "I'd go to my grave wondering what it was."
"Well, all right," Chiun said. "But only because you asked. It is a terrible story."
"The deal's off. If you do anything, we'll sue you for every cent you can borrow."
"Wait a minute," Harold W. Smith said. "Who is this?"
"This is Bruce Marmelstein, executive vice-president and chief financial officer of Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Productions and we're prepared to top any paltry, piddling illegal offer you think you may have made to Barry Schweid."
Schweid's voice piped in. "That's right, Smith. Any offer."
"So now it's up to you, Smith," said Marmelstein. "Make an offer."
"What do you want, Schweid?" Smith asked.
"A half a million dollars and twenty percentage points. Gross," said Schweid.
"You've got it," Smith said.
"There you go again," said Schweid. "See. He's doing it again."
"We'll top it," Marmelstein yelled.
"That's right," shouted Hank Bindle. "We know a winner when somebody reads it to us."
"I'll give you six hundred thousand and twenty-two points," Smith said.
Before Schweid could answer, Marmelstein yelled, "Chickenfeed. We'll top it. You're not going to screw our friend Barry with these pittances of offers."
"That's right," said Hank Bindle. "No pitnesses of offers."
Smith said, "Barry, listen to me and think for a moment. Six hundred thousand dollars. And twenty-two points of the gross. And I'll have the six hundred thousand dollars in your hands in forty-eight hours. In a certified check. All yours. That's cash. Not a promise. You want to turn that down?"
Marmelstein shouted, "Are you inferring that our word is no good? That our credit's bad?"
"Yeah. Don't you ever infer that," warned Bindle.
"Well," said Barry Schweid. His voice was hesitant.
"You're not conning him like that, Smith," said Marmelstein. "You think you're talking to some greenhorn? Barry Schweid is one of the most brilliant writers in Hollywood. What he did for us on Teeth and On Silver Lake was absolute genius. What's six hundred thousand dollars to him?"
"Wait a minute," Barry told Marmelstein. "Six hundred thousand is a lot of money."
"A pitness," Bindle said.
"We'll top it," Marmelstein said. "Goodbye, Smith. We've got nothing more to talk about. You've insulted Barry so much he can never work with you."
Smith heard the phone click off in his ear. So that was that. He thought the whole thing had been a simple mistake and he would be able to buy CURE's records back from Barry Schweid. But now, with these other two in it, things had changed. Schweid was no longer just an annoyance, he was a menace. The three of them had become Remo Williams' next assignment.
Remo.
Where was Remo?
Why hadn't he called?
The telephone rang again and Smith answered.
"Smith, this is Bruce Marmelstein."
"I thought we were done talking," Smith said.
"No, that was just for Schweid's benefit. He's a schmuck. You really want this movie?"
"Yes."
"Six hundred thousand dollars worth?" asked Marmelstein.
"Yes, I'll pay that."
"We'll save you a hundred thou. You've got a deal at 500,000 dollars. But it goes to us. That's Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Productions."
"You don't own it. It's Schweid's property," Smith said.
"That doesn't matter. Tonight we'll tell him our deal fell through. We lost our backers. We'll get him to sell it to us cheap and tomorrow we'll give it to you."
"That's wonderful," Smith said.
"Good," said Marmelstein. "We're going to do the best Hammerlet you ever saw."
"Hamlet?" asked Smith.
"Right. The immortal Barf of Afton. Hammerlet. Am I saying it right?"
"You're saying it fine," Smith said.
"Who needs Schweid to write Hammerlet? Everybody can write Hammerlet," said Marmelstein. "You'll have a movie to be proud of. 'Mr. Smith presents Hammerlock, a Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Production.' You'll love it."
"I can't wait," Smith said.
"You'll hear from us," Bruce Marmelstein said.
"And you'll hear from me," Smith said as he replaced the phone in the darkened office.
"It happened just a few years ago," Chiun said. "About the time that Columbus was stumbling all over your country."
"Chiun, that was 500 years ago."
"Yes. So it was not long ago and there was a master then and his name was Puk. You may not believe this, Remo, but sometimes the Masters of Sinanju have not been nice. And sometimes they have not been flawless. Some have not been perfect human beings, even though you find that hard to believe."
"I'm absolutely devastated by the news," Remo said.
"As well you might be, it being so alien to your experience," Chiun said. "At any rate, this master, whose name was Puk, left the village of Sinanju one day without explanation. He told none of the villagers where he was going and none could guess.
"He was gone three years. Three years without report and without sustenance to the village and many babies were sent home to the sea then. In the old days, Remo, when we could not feed our babies, we— —"
"I know, Chiun," said Remo. "You drowned them and called it sending them home to the sea. I've heard it hundreds of times."
"Please don't interrupt," Chiun said. "Then one day, Puk returned to our village. He was filled with wondrous tales of the faraway land he had visited. It was in a place no one had ever heard of, in what you now call South America, and he told of the wonderful battles he had fought and how he had brought honor to Sinanju. And most of all, he told of how the country he had visited had a mountain of gold.
" 'So where is this bounty?' the villagers cried, and Puk said 'It is coming.' But it did not come and Puk found himself an outcast in his village with none believing him."
Remo said, "South America. That's where Hamidia is. He went to Hamidia."
"Yes," said Chiun. "But he brought back no mountain of gold. Everyone talks about mountains of gold, but no one has ever seen one, it seems. No one except Puk, that is, and who could believe Puk?"
"Is that how you learned to speak Hamidian?" Remo asked.
"That was another master some time later. He went to Hamidia, but he never mentioned any mountain of gold."
"So it's a fairy tale," Remo said.
"For all we know," said Chiun.
"Okay. What happened to Puk?"
"Puk had many assignments around Korea for the rest of his life and helped support the village but he was never truly forgiven for the terrible story he told about the mountain of gold. And when he died, there were none of the ceremonies that usually attend the death of a master. In fact, few mourned. The villagers wrote a song instead. It said, 'Puk, those who would have mourned were sent to the sea while you were out chasing moonbeams. If you seek mourners, go to the bottom of the sea.' "
"It's a sad story," Remo said.
"Yes," said Chiun. "Puk did work in Hamidia and didn't get paid for it. That is very sad. Anyway, when you come next to Sinanju, I will show you Puk'
s grave. The headstone says, 'Here lies Puk the liar. Still lying.' "
Remo left Chiun on the balcony, still shaking his head over the irresponsible liar, Puk. This time the operator got his call through quickly and Smith answered it on first ring.
Quickly, Remo filled him in on what had happened and said, "A scam, Smitty. That's all it was. I don't know why but somebody faked all those plaques and put them around. Chiun says it has something to do with some British assassins, the House of Unisex or something. Yeah, the girl's all right. I think she's mad at me for getting rid of the last Limey who tried to kill her. I don't know. She's wacky. Something about him being her dream man. Anyway, that's the bottom line. No mountain of gold. The dip is out shopping. Naturally. We'll be leaving here tomorrow. No, she doesn't know who we are."
Remo paused and listened as Smith rapid-fired instructions into the phone.
"Hold on," Remo said. "I've been halfway around the world and I need a rest. I don't want to go to Hollywood. Sure, it's important, everything's always important. No, no, no. We; We'll talk about it when I get back. Smitty, you're babbling. Hamlet and assassin movies and producers and points. Take a Valium. We'll talk when I get back. All right, all right, if you want them gone, they'll be gone. That make you feel better?' He listened to Smith's answer, then slammed down the phone.
"Yeah, sure," he grumbled to himself. "Thanks for telling me it was a good job. Sure. In a pig's ass. I'm tired of being unappreciated."
Chapter Sixteen
"Cuanto?" asked Terri Pomfret.
"For you, Madam, six dollars."
"Es demasiado," Terri said.
"It took many weeks to make," the merchant said. "Is six dollars too much for the work of the three women, day after day, trying to make something that they can sell at a fair price to put bread on the table for their starving children?"
"I'll give you four," Terri said. She was annoyed at herself for her lapse into English. She spoke fourteen languages, and she did not like some Spanish merchant bandit conning her out of a language she used as well as her own.
The merchant shook his head and turned his back to walk away.
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