Fade to Black td-119

by Warren Murphy

  Lee recoiled. The something he had touched had fingers.

  In the dark, people still screamed. Succumbing to the contagion of their fear, Lee squinted at the blackness before him.

  The blinding flash of the artillery explosion had splashed dancing splotches of light on his retinas. As the light-blindness receded, a figure resolved from out of the shadows. The cruel cast of the stranger's face jump-started Lee's waxing fear into full-blown panic.

  "Tell me when this hurts," Remo said evenly. Lee tried to jump back.

  A firm hand gripped his throat, holding him in place.

  "But I've got a development deal," Lee begged as Remo dragged him down to the business end of the cannon.

  The maw stared at him. Lee gulped back.

  As he watched in fear, the cannon seemed to launch forward like a hungry beast, swallowing Lee Matson's head all the way to his shaking soldierof-fortune shoulders.

  Outside, Remo gave the barrel a kick. The cannon twisted stage right, away from the thinning crowd. Lee Matson-head jammed too tightly to remove it-had to hop and skip sideways to keep up.

  Remo slipped down the barrel to the small carriage. As Lee wiggled at the far end, Remo's fingers looped around the cord.

  "If you didn't like him, you shouldn't have voted for Perot," he announced as he yanked the cord. The instant he fired the cannon, Remo was already diving from the stage. He hit the aisle at a full sprint.

  Behind him, the pressure built up along the interior of the cannon. With nowhere to go, the shell exploded inside the barrel, launching fragments of hot metal forward. Lee Matson was shredded to hamburg. Meaty red parts splattered like paint pellets against the backstage wall.

  Remo wasn't there to see the aftermath. Wearing a tight expression, he was already halfway up the rear of the stadium. Beyond, the shattered presidential box belched smoke and flame into the starry California night sky.

  BY THE TIME Remo caught up with Chiun in the hallway behind the row of VIP boxes, the stadium emergency lights had hummed to life. The Master of Sinanju was kicking in closed doors as he made his way up the corridor.

  "The President?" Remo asked eagerly as he raced up beside Chiun. .

  "He will live to eat another day," the Master of Sinanju replied. His sandaled foot shot out, exploding a utility closet door. He peeked inside.

  Chiun's face grew more dissatisfied. He went down to the next door. It, too, surrendered to his heel.

  "Is this just wanton destruction or is there a point?" Remo asked once Chiun had emerged from this room, his face a scowl.

  "The prevaricator Tortilli is here," the Master of Sinanju announced angrily.

  "Why didn't you say so?"

  Remo took one side of the corridor, Chiun the other. They kicked their way down to the distant wall.

  After ducking inside the last door-which opened into an unused ladies' room-Remo emerged, dragging a yelping Quintly Tortilli by the ear.

  "Hey, can't a guy take a leak in peace?" the director said, forcing injured innocence into his voice.

  Chiun barged up to him. "Silence, liar."

  The director cowered even as he tried to casually adjust his purple tux.

  "Ohhh, that cutting-room floor thing, right?" he questioned. "No problemo. Next movie, I swear. You costar."

  Remo couldn't believe what he was hearing. "There isn't going to be a next movie, Tortilli," Remo said evenly. "You just tried to kill the President."

  Tortilli nodded disagreement. "Sure, there is. I've already got my next five films sketched out. Chiun can be in one, two-hell, all five of them. Camera loves you, babe." He waved a wild arm down the hall. "But hey, how 'bout the whole John Wilkes Booth-Ford Theater thing here, though? President assassinated in VII box. Pretty slick update, huh? Don't worry, no one'll notice the ripoff."

  Remo had heard enough. "Let's go, Cecil B. Dimwit." Grabbing the director by the ear once more, he began hustling Tortilli down the corridor. The Master of Sinanju padded hastily behind them.

  "Did you say costar or star?" Chiun asked cagily.

  THE LONELY GUARD at Taurus Studios recognized Quintly Tortilli's red Jaguar as it drove up to the gates.

  It was one o'clock in the morning.

  The guard was used to such late arrivals. It wasn't unusual for the maverick director to keep odd hours. Quintly Tortilli was behind the wheel. Apparently alone.

  The car was flagged inside.

  Twenty minutes later, the Jaguar drove back off the lot, its taillights fading into anonymous red dots. When Tortilli's body was discovered on Taurus grounds the next day, the guard shook his head, saying that he didn't notice who was driving the car as it left. He'd assumed it was Tortilli.

  It clearly wasn't, he was told.

  The body of the director had been found inside a private screening room. Someone had threaded the tongue of the young Hollywood genius into a film projector. Somehow-without any hope of a logical explanation-much of Tortilli's crushed and elongated head had trailed the tongue inside the machine.

  When he learned of this new death, coming apparently just hours after the disemboweling of Taurus cochairs Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelsteinwho were found dead in their office around the same time as Tortilli-the guard had only one thing to say.

  "Gee. Sounds like something out of one of his movies, don't it?"

  Chapter 33

  Two days later, Remo was back at home in Massachusetts, sitting cross-legged on his living-room floor. He had just finished reading Chiun's script.

  Whereas before he had only scanned parts of the screenplay, this time he had read it carefully from cover to cover. He was stunned.

  "Unbelievable," he muttered.

  Gathering the script up in one hand, he rose to his feet to go off in search of the Master of Sinanju. He got as far as the kitchen when the telephone rang.

  "It's your dime."

  "Remo, Smith. I thought you might like to know that I have just completed an exhaustive search of Stefan Schoenburg and the rest of the Cabbagehead backers. It appears as if Tortilli was the only one of them involved in this scheme."

  Remo hopped to a sitting position on the counter, dropping Chiun's script beside him. "What about that family that was murdered in Maryland? Did you track down their killers yet?"

  "Killer," Smith stressed. "The police found only one set of fingerprints in the home and on the digging implements found in the tunnel. They were able to match them to those of the would-be presidential assassin in Burbank."

  "They must have picked them up with a sponge," Remo said dryly.

  "He also had the items stolen from the Anderson home on his person. It appears as if all the loose ends are tied up." Smith's lemony voice sounded satisfied.

  "What about the President?" Remo asked. "Is he ticked at us for icing his buddy Tortilli?"

  "He may be," Smith replied with sincere indifference. "That is not a concern to this agency. We have neutralized a threat not only to his life, but to the safety of other Americans. That is our charter."

  "You don't have to sell me, Smitty," Remo said. "In any event, with Bindle and Marmelstein gone, Taurus Studios is in turmoil. Apparently, they converted a great deal of what is arguably Taurus property to their own use. From what I understand, their relatives are suing. The litigation will most likely drag on for years. It looks as if the legacy of Bindle, Marmelstein and Quintly Tortilli is the certain end of Taurus Studios."

  From somewhere distant, Remo heard a horrified shriek. The Master of Sinanju. As he listened to Smith, Remo rolled his eyes to the kitchen door.

  "That's great, Smitty," he said, trying to hurry things along. "If that's everything, I've got to get going."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "By the sounds of it," Remo said, still looking worriedly at the door. "And from what you just told me, I have a sneaking suspicion what it is."

  Hanging up the phone, Remo grabbed Chiun's script from the counter. Hopping to the floor, he made his way into the hallway. He mo
unted the stairs to Chiun's special bell-tower meditation room.

  The Master of Sinanju had gone out to collect the mail not long before the phone rang. Walking through the door to the glass-enclosed room, Remo found the tiny Korean seated on the floor, the day's mail spread out before him. Brilliant yellow sunlight spilled across a neatly typed letter that had been unfolded between Chiun's crossed knees.

  "They are vultures!" the Master of Sinanju hissed as Remo came into the room.

  "Bad news?" Remo asked. He noted the name of a California law firm at the top of the business letter.

  "My movie is not to be released. All projects in that madhouse of a studio are being held captive by lawyers, the only creatures on earth lower than Hollywood executives."

  Crouching beside Chiun, Remo scanned the letter.

  "I've heard of stuff like this happening before." Chiun looked at him, hope touching his hazel eyes. "How long will it take to resolve?"

  Remo frowned somberly. "Beats me. Sometimes it's years. Sometimes never."

  The Master of Sinanju's eyes became twin daggers of cold fury. "Even in death, they have lied to me," he fumed.

  Remo straightened back up. "It's probably just as well," he said. He had been holding Chiun's script in his hand. He dropped it to the floor now. "I just finished reading this thing. Who'd you say wrote it?"

  "I did," Chiun dismissed haughtily.

  "You wrote Assassin's Loves, or whatever you called it. Who wrote that?" Remo pointed at the screenplay.

  "I do not know. The lying Tortilli. Friends of the cretinous Bindle and Marmelstein. Why does it matter?"

  "It matters because I spotted at least twenty other movies that were ripped off in yours. You've got elements of Dirty Harry Serpico, The French Connection, The Godfather, Batman, the Indiana Jones movies and a ton more. And I don't even see that many movies. That was the most derivative piece of drivel I've ever read."

  Chiun frowned. "This is a surprise," he said.

  "Didn't you read it?" Remo asked.

  "Of course I did," Chiun sniffed, annoyed. He rose delicately from the floor, bearing his script with him. "I am only surprised by your persistent jealousy. If you do not let it go, it will consume you, Remo." Tucking the script in the crook of his arm, he began marching to the door.

  "I'm telling you, Little Father, someone would have been sued over that thing. And your name is on the cover."

  "It is disgraceful that you are so envious," Chiun said. "As punishment, I will not mention your name when I receive my Academy Award." He breezed from the room.

  "If the movie is ever released," Remo called out.

  "It would already be out if this industry was not teeming with vipers," Chiun shouted back.

  Remo smiled sadly at the empty room. Warm sunlight touched the dusty corners. "That's showbiz, sweetheart."

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