Shooting Schedule td-79

by Warren Murphy

  "I put him down with a heart-stopping blow. And that's what it felt like, putting down a dog."

  "The enemies of America are all dogs," Chiun sniffed. "And they deserve to die like dogs."

  "I happen to like dogs," Remo said. "This was like drowning a puppy. It made me sick. New rule, Smitty: in the future, I don't work Christmas week. Or Easter. You'll be sending me after the Easter Bunny next."

  "What has that vicious rodent done now?" Chiun asked seriously. He was ignored.

  Smith cleared his throat. "The assignment I had in mind should not involve any killing."

  "Too bad," Remo said sourly. "I still want to dismember him. Or somebody."

  "Ignore my pupil, Emperor. These moods come upon him every year at this time."

  "I had a rough childhood. So sue me."

  Chiun drew himself up proudly. "Since Remo's last mission went so well, I see no reason that I accompany him on this new assignment," he said, watching for the effect this opening gambit would have on Harold Smith, the inscrutable.

  Smith relaxed perceptibly. Chiun's brow wrinkled. "I am glad to hear that, Master Chiun," Smith told him. "This particular assignment is an awkward one. Your presence would be difficult to manage."

  Chiun's papery lips compressed. What was this? Had Smith said such a thing merely to counter his negotiating position? How would he succeed in raising the year's tribute for his village if the Master of Sinanju's role in future assignments did not become a bargaining chip?

  Chiun decided that Smith was bluffing.

  "Your wisdom is insuperable," he said broadly. "For should Remo fail in his mission, should harm befall him, then I stand in readiness to complete his mission."

  "Don't listen to him, Smitty," Remo warned. "He's trying to reel you in."

  "Remo! I am negotiating for my village, which will be your village one day."

  "You can have it."

  "Such insolence!"

  "Please, please," Smith pleaded. "One thing at a time. I thank you for your offer to stand in readiness, Master Chiun."

  "Subject to proper compensation," Chiun added hastily.

  And Smith knew there was no getting away from negotiation here and now.

  "Disneyland is out of the question," Smith said quickly. "The owners say it is not for sale at any price."

  "They always say that the first time," Chiun insisted.

  "That was the third time."

  "Those shylocks! They are trying to force you into making a wildly extravagant offer. Do not let them, Emperor. Allow me to negotiate on your behalf I am confident that they will come to terms."

  "Say good-bye to Mickey Mouse," Remo said.

  Chiun turned like a silk-covered top. "Hush!" he hissed.

  "However," began Smith as he opened a desk drawer, "I did manage to obtain a lifetime pass."

  Chiun's face widened in pleasure. He approached Smith. "For me?" he asked, impressed.

  "As a token of good faith," Smith told him. "So that this year's negotiations begin on a trustworthy note."

  "Done," said the Master of Sinanju. He snatched the pass from Smith's outstretched hand.

  "Nice going, Smitty," Remo said. "You're learning after all these years."

  Remo braced for a rebuke from Chiun, but instead he floated up and waved the pass under his nose.

  "I am going to Disneyland," Chiun said solemnly. "And you are not."

  "Whoopdee doo." Remo made a circle in the air.

  "I hope that the assignment Smith has for you takes you to a harsh, inhospitable climate," Chiun said haughtily.

  "As a matter of fact," Smith said, "I am sending Remo into the desert."

  "A fitting place for one who is barren of respect and the milk of human kindness. I recommend the Gobi."

  "Yuma."

  "Even worse," Chiun cried triumphantly. "The Yuma Desert is so remote that even I have not heard of it."

  "It is in Arizona, down by the Mexican border."

  "What's down there?" Remo wanted to know.

  "A movie."

  "Can't I wait till it opens locally?"

  "I meant that they are filming a movie in Yuma. You've heard of Bartholomew Bronzini? The actor?"

  "No," Remo said, "I've heard of Bartholomew Bronzini the accountant, Bartholomew Bronzini the lingerie salesman, and Bartholomew Bronzini the sequin polisher. The actor I've never heard about. How about you, Chiun?"

  "The famous Bronzini family is well-known for its many Bartholomews," Chiun said sagely. "Of course I am familiar with him."

  "Well, I'm convinced," Remo said brightly.

  "This is serious, Remo," Smith said. "Bronzini is filming his latest production in Yuma. There are labor troubles. The production is backed by a Japanese conglomerate. The film industry's main crafts union, the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, has been frozen out of the production. They are very upset. But the Japanese production is perfectly legal. Yesterday there was an altercation between a number of IATSE picketers and Bronzini himself. Several union members were killed. Bronzini himself was roughed up."

  "Knowing Bronzini, he probably started it."

  "You know Bronzini?" Smith asked in surprise.

  "Well, not personally," Remo admitted. "But I read things about him. When he goes to a restaurant, they have to set an extra place for his ego."

  "Gossip," Smith said. "Let's deal with the facts."

  Remo sat up. "This doesn't sound like our job."

  "It's very important. A film of this scale involves million-dollar expenditures. If this is successful, other Japanese films may be made in the United States. It could go a long way toward correcting our current trade imbalance with the Japanese."

  "I got a better idea. We ship back all their cars. They all look alike anyway."

  "Racist!" Chiun hissed.

  "I didn't mean it the way it came out," Remo said defensively. "But isn't this a little out of out league?"

  "Do not listen to him, Emperor," Chiun said. "He is trying to get out of this obviously important mission."

  "I am not. If Smith says go, I'll go. I've never seen a movie made. It might be fun."

  "Good," Smith said. "Your job will be to keep an eye on Bronzini. Make certain nothing happens to him: His acting career may be on the decline, but to many people he symbolizes the American dream. It would be very damaging if he were to come to harm. I've spoken to the President about this and he agrees that we should give this high priority, despite what would seem to be a situation not within our normal operating scope."

  "Okay," Remo said. "I'm a bodyguard."

  "Actually," Smith put in, "we've made arrangements for you to join the production as a stunt extra. It was the easiest way. And they are desperate for professionals willing to cross the picket lines."

  "Does that mean I get to be in the film?" Remo asked.

  Before Smith could answer, the Master of Sinanju cried out in a stricken voice.

  "Remo is going to be in the movies!"

  "Yes," Smith admitted. Then he realized what he had said and to whom, and hastily added, "In a manner of speaking."

  Chiun said nothing. Smith relaxed again. Then Remo came up behind Chiun and tapped him on the shoulder. When the Master of Sinanju flounced around, Remo said in a taunting voice, "I'm going to be in a movie and you're only going to Disneyland."

  Chiun whirled on Smith in a flurry of silken skirts. "I demand to be in this movie as well!" he cried.

  "That's impossible," Smith said sharply. He glowered at Remo through his rimless eyeglasses.

  "Why?" Chiun demanded. "If Remo can go, I can go. I am a better actor than he will ever be."

  Smith sighed. "This has nothing to do with acting. Remo will be a stunt extra. Their faces are never seen on the screen."

  "That may be good enough for Remo. But I insist upon co-star billing."

  Smith buried his pinched face in his hands. And it had gone so well until now....

  "Master of Sinanju," he said wearily, "pl
ease go to Disneyland. I cannot get you onto that movie set."

  "Why not? I will accept a reasonable explanation." Smith lifted his head. It appeared as bloodless as a turnip. His face was faintly lighter than his gray eyes.

  "Believe it or not, most big-budget film sets have tighter security than our top military installations. Film people need to safeguard their ideas from competitors. Even the smallest film these days is a multimillion-dollar undertaking. The profits they realize can easily go to eight figures. I can get Remo onto that set because he's a white male. You, on the other hand, are Korean. "

  "I asked you for a reasonable explanation and you offer me bigotry. Are you saying that these movie people are prejudiced against Koreans?"

  "No, what I am saying is that you're not appropriate as a stunt person, for obvious reasons."

  "The reasons are not obvious to me," Chiun insisted.

  "Remo, could you please explain it to him?"

  "Sure," Remo said brightly. "It's very simple, Little Father. I'm going to make a movie and you're going to Disneyland and hang out with the mice and the ducks."

  "What manner of white logic is this?" Chiun shrieked. "You are both conspiring to deny me stardom."

  "You're right, Chiun," Remo said flatly. "It's a plot. I think you should wring the truth out of Smith while I'm in Yuma. You both enjoy your negotation now. . . ."

  Remo started for the door. Smith shot out of his seat as if it had sprouted porcupine quills.

  "Remo," he begged, "don't leave me alone with him." Remo paused at the door.

  "Why not? You two deserve one another."

  "You'll need your contact's name," Smith pointed out.

  "Damn," Remo said. He had forgotten that little detail.

  "There!" Chiun cried. "Proof that Remo is incapable of fulfilling this mission without my help. He very nearly went off willy-nilly, without direction. He would no doubt have blundered into the wrong movie and ruined everything."

  "Earlier, you told me that Remo didn't require you on missions," Smith pointed out in a reasonable voice.

  "Ordinary missions," Chiun flung back. "This is an extraordinary mission. Neither of us has made a movie before this."

  "Sorry."

  "I am willing to dispense with the requirement that my presence on future assignments receive extra compensation," Chiun said stiffly.

  "That's very generous of you, but my hands are tied."

  "Then I will pay you. I can make up the difference when I am cast in a movie of my own."

  "Nice try, Little Father," Remo said, "but I don't think it will wash. Smitty looks like he's made up his mind. "

  Smith nodded. "None of us have any choice in this matter. I'm sorry, Master of Sinanju, I have no way of getting you onto the set."

  "That is your final word?" Chiun asked coldly.

  "I am afraid so."

  "Then send this white ingrate on his way," Chiun said brusquely. "And prepare yourself for a negotiation the likes of which you have never before faced."

  "Sounds grim, Smitty," Remo joked. "Better tell the wife to hold supper until the new year."

  "Just be certain not to specify which year," Chiun added darkly.

  Smith went ashen. Woodenly he took a folder from his desk and slid it across to Remo.

  "Everything you need to know is there," Smith told him.

  Remo picked up the folder and opened it.

  "I didn't know I was in King Kong Lives," he said.

  "You were?" Chiun asked, shocked.

  "Phony background," Remo explained. "According to this, I'm Remo Durock. Well, I guess I'm off to seek my fortune."

  "Break a leg," Chiun called tightly.

  "They say that to actors," Remo said. "I'm a stunt man. It has a whole different meaning for stunt men."

  "Then break an arm, ingrate."

  Remo only laughed. The door closed after him and the Master of Sinanju abruptly turned to face Smith. The elemental fury on his visage was tightly reined in, but it was all the more frightening for that reason.

  Without a word, C'hiun settled onto the bare floor. Smith took a yellow legal pad from his desk, two number-two pencils, and joined him there.

  "I am ready to begin negotiations," Smith said formally.

  "But are you ready to negotiate?" Chiun asked flintily. "That is the true question."

  Chapter 6

  Senator Ross Ralston was not above what he jokingly called "a little honest influence peddling," but he drew the line at selling out his country. Not that anyone had ever asked him to sell out America. But if they had, Senator Ralston knew what he would say. He had served his country in Korea. He still had his Purple Heart to prove it. Probably no one had been more surprised than Lieutenant Ross Ralston that day in 1953 when his Purple Heart came in.

  "What's this for?" asked Ralston, who was division liquor officer in Mansan, a rear area.

  "Your eye injury."

  "Eye injury?" Ralston had nearly burst out laughing. He had sustained it in the mess hall while attempting to crack a soft-boiled egg. The thing wouldn't budge. He gave it a good whack with a spoon and pieces of shell flew in all directions. One got into his right eye. A medic removed it with saline solution.

  "Yeah, eye injury," the major said. "According to this, you caught a shell fragment. If this is another Army snafu, we can send it back."

  "No," said Lieutenant Ralston quickly. "Shell fragments. That's right. I got hit by a shell fragment. Sure. I just didn't expect a Purple Heart out of it. I was hit pretty bad, sure. But it's not like I'm blind or anything. In fact, the dizzy spells have almost stopped. So what are you waiting for? Pin that baby on."

  It wasn't technically a lie. And Ross Ralston consoled himself with the knowledge that he hadn't put in for the medal. It had been automatically processed from the medic's routine notation. Ralston knew that in his plum station-arranged for by his father, Senator Grover Ralston-he couldn't hope to steal a Purple Heart.

  For Ross Ralston, it had started with that Purple Heart. The little evasions, the minor distortions. A career in politics and a steady but inevitable walk to the U. S. Senate. But Arizona Senator Ralston knew where to draw the line. He did it every day. He was a member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. He was willing to do favors, but only as long as they didn't compromise the higher interests of the United States.

  Senator Ralston never realized that the trouble with being only a little dishonest was that it was like being only a little pregnant. It was either all or nothing.

  So when he was asked by no less than superstar Bartholomew Bronzini to bend the Gun Control Import Act of 1968 just a hair, he had no hesitation. Everyone knew that Bronzini was a patriot. Everyone who had seen him in Grundy I, II, and III, that is. No question of conflict of interest here. The man was as American as apple pie, even if he did look like a sicilian leg-breaker with a chromosome imbalance.

  "Tell me again why you need this waiver," Ralston prompted.

  They were seated in Senator Ralston's well-appointed Capitol Hill office. There was a tiny Christmas tree on his desk made of glazed clay and plastic ornaments.

  "Well, sir,"-Ralston smiled at the idea of being called sir by Bronzini-"it's like this. I'm making a movie in your home state. In Yuma."

  "Is that in Arizona?" Ralston asked.

  "Yes, sir, it is."

  "Oh. I don't get back home much anymore. Washington keeps me pretty busy."

  Bronzini went on. "It involves a lot of combat situations with extras firing automatic weapons and throwing hand grenades. We can't bring these weapons into the country without a waiver from the State Department."

  "I thought that you people had warehouses full of these props." He emphasized the word "props" so Bronzini would know they spoke the same language.

  "We do, sir, but in this particular film we need Chinese-made AK-47's."

  "Ah, I see. The recent bans."

  "Actually, Senator, those are semiautomatic weapons that have been banned. We ne
ed the fully automatic versions. You see, a prop rifle is usually a fully operational weapon. It's the loads that are blanks."

  "Yes, I see your difficulty, Bart. May I call you Bart?"

  "You can call me Mary if it will get me the waiver. I'm in a jam here. Filming starts in two days and the only way we can get these weapons to our location in time is with a State Department waiver."

  Senator Ralston was amazed at Bronzini's quiet demeanor. He half-expected him to come charging into the room screaming his demands at the top of his lungs. The man knew the cardinal rule for tapping into the Washington power flow: if you can't buy it, suck up to it.

  "Bart," the senator said, jumping to his feet, "I think I can do something for you on this."

  "Great," Bronzini said, cracking a relieved smile.

  "But you gotta do something for me in return."

  "What's that?" Bronzini asked, suddenly wary.

  The senator put a friendly arm around Bronzini's shoulders.

  "I'm going to have to go into these infamous smoke-filled rooms we got here in the capital and go to bat for you," he said seriously. "It would help a lot if I had a lever with my fellow committee members."

  "Anything," Bronzini said. "Anything I can do, I will."

  Senator Ralston smiled expansively. This was going to be easier than he had expected.

  "Would you mind posing for a photo with me?"

  "Oh, absolutely."

  "Sally, will you come in here? And bring the camera." Breathlessly the senator's secretary flew into the room, clutching an expensive Japanese camera. Brunzini noticed almost with a start that the red letters over the lens read "Nishitsu."

  "Christ, what don't those people manufacture?" he mumbled.

  "Stand right here," Senator Ralston was saying happily. He was thinking about how this photo would look framed on his office wall. For in Washington, power was in whom you knew. Connections. Now, an actor like Bartholomew Bronzini might not have much clout among his fellow power brokers, but impressing them was two-thirds of the game.

  Bronzini posed for so many shots he began to feel like a Playgirl centerfold. The senator put his arm around him. They shook hands in three different poses. And when it was over, Senator Ralston personally saw the famous actor to the door.

  "A pleasure doing business with you," he said broadly. "You'll have that waiver by close of business tomorrow."