Fade to Black td-119

by Warren Murphy

  Reginald was certain that there would be offers. He was certain of this fact during the months after demeaning months he spent traipsing from one studio to another meeting with agents, directors and producers.

  The realization that he'd been wrong to believe so wholeheartedly in the certainty of his eventual offers finally sank in one cool California evening when he returned home from yet another round of casting calls.

  His mailbox was empty. Again.

  Okay, technically it wasn't empty. Actually, it was only clear of film offers. It was full of other things. Like bills from the telephone company, the gas company, the electric company, his Strasberg Method class-what was he thinking?-and about a dozen other invoices.

  That night, sitting on the stoop of his Rosecrans Avenue apartment in the Compton section of L.A., the sounds of revving car engines and the gunshots of gang warfare rising softly to his ears, Reginald Hardwin had a revelation.

  He had been wrong. Desperately so.

  Not about his basic thesis, mind you. He was still possibly the greatest actor who had ever lived-certainly the greatest living actor-but something else occurred to him that night. The well had been poisoned by bad actors.

  He was missing out on acting jobs because all of the famous actors working in the business were so inferior to him that no one knew any longer what a good actor was.

  By that time, three years had come and gone since Reginald had first started going on auditions. In that time, the happy lark that had marked the beginning of his search for film work had evolved into a much more serious quest for employment. But that night the seriousness of Hardwin's search reached epic proportions.

  He started going on more auditions. Every single one he heard of. Morning, noon or night. It didn't matter. He was like a man obsessed.

  There was nothing beneath his dignity. Once, he even donned a dress and wig, hoping that it would get him a job in a panty hose commercial. After offering certain "favors" to the man casting the ad in question, the only thing his zeal got him was an appearance before a local judge.

  Even with such setbacks, his new blitzkrieg did net him a few jobs over the years. He got work doing voice-overs for radio spots. He was an apple in a men's underwear ad. He even worked with Lord Larry himself in Clash of the Titans, but was later cut out of the final print. Hardwin suspected that it was fear on Olivier's part. The old fraud didn't want to be upstaged by a much more talented younger actor.

  But the thing Reginald Hardwin truly wanted-huge success in the motion-picture industry with the accompanying chance to thumb his nose at that success-always eluded him.

  Until the call.

  It came late in his career. Reginald Hardwin was in his mid-forties-although his birth certificate back in Norwich, England, would have disputed that claim by more than a decade.

  The caller had stated the obvious. That Hardwin was a genius whose talents had been squandered over the years.

  "I don't even know who you are, yet you are the most perceptive individual I have ever met," Reginald Hardwin told the anonymous caller.

  "It must be awful to be so great and have no one recognize that greatness," the caller said.

  "You have no idea," Hardwin replied.

  "How would you like recognition? How would you like everyone everywhere to know your name? To never forget who you are?"

  "I would rather have cash," Hardwin replied. To his surprise, he had gotten it. Five million dollars arrived by courier that afternoon. Cash. Since he was between agents at the time, Reginald didn't have to parcel out an automatic fifteen percent. And since it was in cash, he didn't have to bother with the pesky bloodsuckers of the Internal Revenue Service. Happily, he didn't have to part with one red cent.

  "You got the money," the voice of the stranger stated in his subsequent phone call.

  "I did," Hardwin had replied. He was trying to remain blase. As if five million dollars were nothing to him.

  "All five million?"

  It was an odd question to ask. "Yes," Hardwin admitted.

  The caller's voice seemed to soften. "I need you to do a little something for me."

  It was the way he said it. Reginald Hardwin stiffened. "I won't do anything illegal," he sniffed.

  "In that case, give me my money back."

  The thought horrified Reginald Hardwin. "I will not," he said. Thinking quickly, he added in a scheming tone, "Besides, I never have to admit you sent me one nickel. It was not a check, remember. There is no record. I'm afraid you're out of luck, poor boy."

  "You signed for the money, Reggie," the caller said. "That alone is proof enough to the IRS. You lose half right off the top to them. Then the Feds will probably want to know where the money came from. With that much at once and no work to show for it, their first thought will be drugs. On top of all that, I have you on tape just now admitting that you accepted it. That might not be admissible evidence, but a judge could take it into consideration. Now, knowing all this, I think that you'll want to return the money to me if I ask for it. If only to keep yourself out of trouble."

  Hardwin had grown more fearful as the caller went through his obviously prepared speech. It almost sounded as if he was reading. Hardwin was practically in tears by the time the man finished.

  "But I want to keep my money," he cried.

  "You can, Reggie. Don't worry. I have no interest in taking it back from you. Not if you do as I say. You will do as I say, won't you, Reggie?" Hardwin had reluctantly agreed. The caller-whom he now knew only as Captain Kill-had convinced him that it was easier to do things as long as he stayed "in character." He was right. Hardwin was in character when he had taken over the reins of GlassCo in New Jersey, the dummy company set up by his phantom employer. Many of the men working under him there were actors in character, as well. The rest were just thugs hired by the voice on the phone.

  In the gig set up by his mysterious employer, Hardwin stayed in character for the duration of their planting the explosives in the Regency Building in Manhattan. He had remained in character even after he had detonated the explosives and watched the thirty-second floor of the office building blast outward in a spray of fine crystalline glass.

  It was rather liberating. And most importantly, it was acting. A big, meaty, over-the-top role. The kind of acting he had never been able to do in his professional career.

  His employer had sent Reginald Hardwin the bio of his character, who also happened to be named Reginald Hardwin.

  He was a member of the British aristocracy, according to the back-story. A former member of Her Majesty's Strategic Air Services, he had had a falling-out with his government. Stumbling into the underworld, he had gotten hooked up with the Irish Republican Army. One thing had led to another after that. The British wanted him. The Americans wanted him. It was all frightfully exciting. And very, very real. For fiction, that is.

  The really wonderful thing was the way he had gotten lost in the part of Reginald Hardwin. For the first time ever, he felt that he had really found himself as an actor.

  Of course, the fictitious Reginald Hardwin was responsible for some truly terrible things. But the real Reginald couldn't be blamed for anything that had gone on so far. He was an actor, hired to play a part.

  A part he played brilliantly.

  For both Reginald Hardwin the fictional character and Reginald Hardwin the actor, the explosion at the Regency Building was far behind. It was another day, another scene.

  "Exterior, street, day," Hardwin muttered to himself as he strode confidently up the broad sidewalk. The metal fence rose high to his left.

  It was overcast: Swollen gray clouds painted the bleak inverted bowl that was the sky. Here and there, patches of much deeper black threatened the thunderstorms local weathermen had predicted for later that afternoon.

  As Reginald walked, he heard the first distant rumblings coming from the heavens. He wondered if it might not be a portent. After all, the weather always meant much to Shakespeare.

  Around h
im, tourists began to eye the clouds with increasing concern. Some packed away expensive cameras, ready to dash for the cover of their parked cars or tour buses if it became necessary.

  It would have to go quickly. The plan demanded that he and his men be mistaken for ordinary tourists.

  As he strolled along, Reginald's wristwatch timer beeped abruptly. The moment it did, he stopped at the fence.

  There were no guards here. The only ones he'd seen were at the entrance he had passed a dozen yards away.

  There was a stone wall about two feet high just before the eight-foot-tall fence.

  Reginald popped the latches on the briefcase he was carrying and reached quickly inside. He removed a light parcel that consisted of four small plastique charges, connected by wires. Adhesive was attached to each charge.

  Efficiently, still in character, Hardwin stuck the charges to the two slender posts in the wrought-iron fence-two high, two low.

  Already motion detectors and surveillance cameras would have picked him up. Inside they were already reacting. It didn't matter. There were too many of them out there. A veritable army all acting in unison.

  All around the perimeter fence, dozens of men were repeating the same movements at precisely the same moment. They reached into raincoats and jackets, bags and knapsacks.

  As Hardwin positioned the last charge, he felt a tug on his arm.

  "What the hell are doing?" An accusation. He turned.

  Fat face. Beet red. Angry.

  So typically American; leaping blindly into the fray.

  Reginald Hardwin smiled at the man. "Are you a cowboy?" he asked smoothly.

  The tourist seemed baffled by the non sequitur. And in that brief moment of hesitation, Reginald pulled his Heckler ol from its shoulder holster, aimed it at the man's surprised face and pulled the trigger.

  The man's brains hadn't even splattered across the neatly swept sidewalk before Hardwin was flinging himself in the opposite direction.

  Poom!

  The charges detonated just as he was rolling up against the protective squat wall.

  He bounded up in the next instant.

  The plastic explosives had ripped through the pair of metal bars. Gathering his briefcase, Hardwin quickly kicked what was left of the twisted metal out of the way. Turning sideways, he slipped inside the fence.

  Others had been loitering on the sidewalk farther away. Guns drawn, they raced up now, sliding efficiently through the opening Hardwin had made.

  It was the same all around the grounds. Armed men flooded in through the twisted bars at dozens of smoking openings.

  The Marines charged from the residence, followed by Secret Service agents. Gunfire erupted all around the mansion. In minutes, the lush green lawns were awash in red.

  It should never have happened. Most swore that it could never happen. But it did.

  Reginald Hardwin and his men had the element of surprise working for them. Complacency on the part of their opponents proved to be the deciding factor.

  The men protecting the President of the United States were overwhelmed in less than ten minutes. Thanks to the leadership of a failed motion-picture actor, for the first time since the War of 1812, the White House had fallen before a hostile force.

  Chapter 19

  While the American flag continued to flutter high above the heads of the captives cowering within the most famous residence in the world, Remo Williams was wandering, despondent, through the grounds of Taurus Studios.

  The L.A. bomb squad had dismantled the timers on the Plotz truck bombs before hauling the vehicles off the lot. Beneath the tons of fertilizer in the back of one, they would eventually discover the bodies of the actors who had planted the trucks at Taurus.

  Except for saving Chiun's life, this trip was a bust. Not only was Remo still no closer to learning who was behind the scheme, but also he was now stuck in Hollywood.

  Hands stuffed into the pockets of his chinos, he walked back to the set where he'd driven the one live bomb.

  Remo ignored the yellow police tape. Ducking underneath the fluttering plastic strip, he wandered onto the lot.

  There were still many police and fire officials on hand. When one uniformed officer came running angrily over to him, Remo waved one of his many IDs at the man. He hoped it wasn't the one that said he was from the Motion Picture Association of America.

  Apparently it wasn't. The cop left him alone. Remo meandered over to ground zero. He stopped at the very edge of the newly formed crater. The explosion had blasted a huge hole that looked like the excavation site for an Olympic-size pool. Several layers of asphalt had been ripped away in a jagged circle. The blast had dug down as far as the bedrock. Dirt was scattered everywhere. Black stains of charred ash stretched unevenly around the vast pit.

  The set was demolished beyond repair. Phony building facades had been flung away like broken dominoes.

  A few unused studio buildings not visible before could now be seen beyond the rubble of the New York skyline. Their fronts had been blown backward into abandoned offices. Only one had any remnants of a roof left at all.

  Beyond the shattered buildings, a vacant tract of dusty land spotted with dry scraggly brush extended to the distant studio wall. The high white rear wall of Taurus had survived the blast with no visible damage.

  After a few bored minutes, Remo headed away from the shattered set. With nothing to go on at the moment, he decided to kill whatever time he had to spend at Taurus with Chiun. He went back the way he had come, into the more populated center of the studio complex.

  Taurus employees had only been allowed back on the lot an hour ago. Given the excitement, however, very little work was getting done.

  Remo found a group of three chattering secretaries standing outside the infirmary.

  "The movie that was shooting on the New York set," he interrupted the trio of women as he walked past, "anyone know where it is now?"

  "Soundstage 4," one woman supplied helpfully. Her hungry smile as she appraised Remo's lean frame was mirrored by the lascivious looks of her overly made-up friends.

  As he walked off, one of the woman called, "Hey, gimme your script and I can make sure it gets read." Her lilt screamed "casting couch."

  "Read?" scoffed the one who had first spoken.

  "Produced," she called to Remo. "I can get you a three-picture deal off your first script."

  "I can make sure you star," the third woman said, trumping her friends. "Just give your script to me. You can bring it to my apartment. Say, around eight o'clock?"

  When Remo turned around, all three women were smiling eager capped teeth.

  "I don't have a script," he said simply.

  It was a phrase they had obviously never before encountered. Three looks of hope collapsed into expressions of utter incomprehension. Leaving the women to wrap their smoking brains around such an unimaginable concept, Remo headed to Soundstage 4.

  The red light outside the door indicated shooting was in progress. Remo ignored it. Tugging the door open a crack, he slipped silently inside.

  An older man in a cotton print shirt sat at a plain wooden desk inside the door. He had been scanning a bored eye over the latest Variety, but when Remo entered he dropped the paper and jumped to his feet, shaking his gray head.

  "This is a closed set," the guard whispered.

  "MPAA," Remo whispered back, flashing the appropriate identification. "This is a naughty-word raid."

  The man studied the ID for a moment, beefy face scrunched in suspicion.

  "Is this something new?"

  Remo nodded. "Patricia Ireland says molesting interns is A-okay, but swear words lead to sexual harassment." He shrugged. "All I know is it's giving me more work to do."

  Taking his eyes from the ID, the man settled in his worn seat. He seemed satisfied with Remo's claim.

  "Yeah? Well, good luck," he whispered. He indicated the interior of the soundstage with an unhappy thrust of his chin. "The MPAA's gonna run out of calculat
ors trying to add up all the swearing this guy puts in his movies."

  He returned to his newspaper.

  Remo wandered from the desk into the shadowy depths of the massive soundstage.

  The guard's comment was strange. The Master of Sinanju didn't appreciate the use of foul language so common in America. To him it was the height of incivility.

  Of course, Remo had heard Chiun use plenty of Korean curses during their earliest training sessions. But that use of language had ended long ago. Remo couldn't believe Chiun would write a film laced with profanity.

  No one interrupted him when he stopped at the edge of the packed crowd of crew members. There was some kind of staged fight in progress. As the cameras rolled, the actors were screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs.

  "You shit-heel-asshole-fuck!"

  "Fuck you, you fuck!"

  The last dollops of carefully scripted ambrosia dripped from the velvet tongue of a young actress standing in a mock-up of a cluttered apartment. Beyond the windows of the set, a backdrop of tenements stood in for the real New York.

  The language devolved from there. The fight intensified into a romantic scene bordering on the pornographic.

  Remo couldn't believe his eyes. Everything he was seeing and hearing was entirely unlike Chiun. As his disbelief grew, a familiar voice suddenly shouted from the rafters high above the set.

  "And ...cut! Perfect. Damn, I am good."

  Remo quickly found the source of the self-congratulations. Quintly Tortilli sat in a squat chair behind the long arm of one of the boom microphones.

  With an electronic hum, the young director was lowered from his perch. A few assistants were waiting for him when he reached floor level.

  Remo slipped easily through the crowd, coming through the crush of people immediately around Tortilli. They were only aware he was there when he spoke.

  "What the hell is this?" Remo demanded.

  Still seated, Tortilli turned in surprise. "Remo! Hi!" he enthused. He pushed his baseball cap back on his head. "Just taking back the reins from ol' Arlen here." He nodded to one of the men in his entourage. Relief was painted large on Arlen Duggal's exhausted face.