"Thank you, sir," said Bartholomew Bronzini in his sincere but flat voice.
"Sir," Senator Ralston said to himself as he watched the actor depart, ponytail switching. "Bartholomew Bronzini called me sir."
He never dreamed that for a handful of snapshots he had just struck a deal to arm an occupying army. Bartholomew Bronzini entered his suite at the Lafayette Hotel. Jiro Isuzu was waiting for him. Jiro bounced from his chair with the expectant look of a faithful dog presenting himself to his master.
"Yes?" he asked. It sounded like a cat's hiss. Bronzini nodded.
"Yes. He promised us the waiver by tomorrow."
"This is most excerrent, Bronzini san."
"He didn't even ask me about the production."
"I tord you my presence was unnecessary. Your name arone open many door."
"Yeah, I noticed," Bronzini said dryly. "So we have the waiver. Can you get the guns to Yuma in time for the first day's shooting?"
Jiro Isuzu smiled tightly. "Yes, guns are in Mexican depot. Arrive from Hong Kong today. Easy to get across border now that waiver is certainty. Unrike tanks."
"Tanks?"
"Yes, we require many, many Chinese tanks."
"I didn't ask him about any tanks."
"Senator not one to ask, Bronzini san. Customs. We go there now. Prease to forrow."
Bronzini arrested the wiry Japanese by grabbing a handful of his coat collar.
"Hold on Jiro," he said. "We got a waiver on the machine guns only because I promised to export them when filming's over. Tanks are another matter altogether. I don't know if this is possible."
"You have used tanks in your firms before?" Isuzu said, prying Bronzini's fingers from his person.
"Sure, but I filmed Grundy III in Israel. The Israelis let me use all the tanks I wanted, but they're in a perpetual state of war over there. They're used to tanks in the streets. If you want to shoot tank scenes, I suggest we move filming to Israel."
"These tanks farse."
"Farce? Did we take a sudden turn into comedy?"
"Not farce, farse. Not real. Props. Customs men, once they see this, will happiry agree to their import."
"Oh, false! You really gotta work on your L's Jiro. It's gonna hold you back later on in life."
"Japanese take pride in not pronouncing retter L." He pronounced it "eru."
"We all have our crosses to bear. So where do we go from here-or do you want me to talk to the President while I'm in town? Maybe ask him to repeal daylightsaving time for the duration of production."
"You know American President?" Isuzu asked.
"Never met the guy. It was a little joke."
"Not see humor in terring rie," Isuzu said stiffly.
"Why should you be any different?" Bronzini muttered to himself. "So what's next?"
"We meet with customs man. Then we return to Arizona, where we wirr personarry oversee the movement of these prop tanks."
"Okay, you read, I forrow," Bronzini said, gesturing broadly to the door.
As they stepped out into the plush hotel hallway, Jiro Isuzu turned to Bartholomew Bronzini.
"You have become very cooperative since we arrive in Washington, D. C. Why change of attitude?"
"It's like this, Jiro," Bronzini said, stabbing the elevator's down button. "I don't like the way I was conned into this. No shit, okay? I do not like it. But that's my name on that contract. I'm a man of my word. If this is the movie you want, this is the movie you get."
"Honor is a very admirable trait. We Japanese understand honor, and varue it highry."
"Good. Do you understand elevators? I'm getting old waiting for this one. What's the Japanese name for elevator anyway?"
"Erevator. "
"No shit. Sounds like the American word, give or take a consonant."
"It is. Japanese take many things from American curture. Reject only what is bad."
"Which brings me to the other reason. Everywhere I turn, I see the name Nishitsu. You guys may be the wave of the future, and if you're going to be doing movies, I'm your boy."
"Yes," Jiro Isuzu said as they stepped into the elevator. "You are our boy indeed, Bronzini san."
The director of U. S. Customs was an easy man to deal with. He settled for an autograph.
"But you realize that these tanks will have to be exported when you're finished." He laughed self-consciously. "Not that we think you're trying to put one over on us-after all, what would a movie company want with actual combat vehicles? And everyone knows that the Japanese are among the most peace-loving peoples on the face of the earth. Especially after we dropped the Big One on them, eh, Mr. Isuzu?"
When Isuzu did not join in the customs director's nervous laughter, the latter recovered and went on. "But you do understand that we do have regulations that must be adhered to. I can only expedite the process. The inspection procedure must be observed. It's for everyone's benefit."
"I understand perfectly, sir," Bartholomew Bronzini assured him. He shook the man's hand.
"Nice meeting you too, Mr. Isuzu. Sorry about my little joke there."
"Don't mind Jiro," Bronzini quipped. "His funny bone was surgically removed at birth."
"Oh," the director of customs said sincerely. "Sorry to hear that."
The T-62 tanks and armored personnel carriers were stored at a Nishitsu warehouse in San Luis, Mexico. They had been dismantled and shipped to Mexico as farm equipment and assembled there by Nishitsu employees. The Mexican authorities had been paid off in Nishitsu merchandise. VCR's were the most popular. Hardly anyone took any of the Nishitsu Ninja jeeps because even the Mexicans had heard about their tendency to tip over on sharp turns. The Mexican road system was almost all sharp turns.
Customs Inspector Jack Curry's knees shook as he went through the rows of tanks in the Nishitsu warehouse with no less than Bartholomew Bronzini. They did not shake from the fearsomeness of these war machines. Although they looked pretty awesome with their long smoothbore cannon and Chinese Red Army star on the turrets. They were painted in chocolate-and-vanilla desert camouflage striations.
"This is really something," he said.
"I can hardly believe it myself," Bronzini said. "Look at these monsters."
"I didn't mean the tanks, Mr. Bronzini. I'm just so surprised that you'd actually be here in person." Bronzini recognized a cue when he heard one. "This is important to me, Mr. Curry. I just want everything to go smoothly."
"I can understand that. It's obvious that these tanks must have cost thousands of dollars apiece, even if they are props." Curry experimentally rapped the fender of one of them. It rang with a solid metallic sound.
"Our finest machinists assembre these," Jiro Isuzu put in proudly.
"Yes, well, if it wasn't for the fact that this is a movie, I'd almost think they were real."
"These Japanese copies of Chinese battre tank," Isuzu supplied. "Tanks are supposed to look ... What is word?"
"Realistic," Bronzini supplied.
"Yes, rearistic. Thank you. You inspect now?"
"Yes, of course. Let's get to work."
At a signal from Isuzu, Nishitsu mechanics fell on the tank like white ants. They popped the hatches and one of them slid into the driver's compartment. He started the engine. The tank growled and began spewing diesel exhaust in the cramped confines of the warehouse.
The tank shifted its tracks, and eased from its slot. It rolled to a halt in front of Bronzini and the others. Jack Curry entered the turret with his big flashlight. He speared light over the interior. He inspected the big cannon. It lacked a breech. Obviously a dummy. It could not possibly fire without the missing components. The turret-mounted .50-caliber machine gun was also apparently a shell. There was no firing mechanism.
Curry wriggled his way into the driver's pit. It was so cramped he got tangled in the handlebarlike steering yoke. He poked his head up from the driver's hatch.
"It looks fine," he said. "I take it these things are completely self-propelled."
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"Yes," Jiro Isuzu told him. "They wirr run like rearistic tank, but cannot shoot."
"Well, in that case, there's only one thing that prevents me from passing these things."
"What that?" Isuzu asked tightly.
"I can't seem to get out of this hatch so I can sign the proper forms," Curry said sheepishly. "Would someone give me a hand here?"
Jack Curry was amazed when Bronzini himself offered him a leather-wristband-supported hand.
"Here, just take it slow," Bronzini told him. "Put your foot on that bar." Bronzini pulled. "There. Now the other one. Uhhh, there you go."
"Thank you, gentlemen," Curry said, stepping off the hull. "Guess I'm not as spry as I once was.
"Tanks buirt for Japanese extra. Much smarrer than American," Isuzu said with a rapid-fire bowing of his head.
Bronzini thought he was going to throw his head out of whack, he was bobbing it so much.
Customs Inspector Jack Curry gave the rest of the tanks and APC's a cursory glance and then he produced a sheaf of documents. He set them on the tank's fender and began stamping them with a little rubber stamp.
When he was done, he handed them to Bronzini. "There you are, Mr. Bronzini. Just have your people show these at the place of entry and you should have no trouble. By the way, how are you going to get them into the U.S.?"
"Don't ask me. That's not my department. Jiro?"
"It very simpre," the Japanese answered. "We wirr drive them across border into desert."
"There," Bronzini said. "Now, is there anything else?"
"No," Curry replied, grabbing Bronzini's hand with both of his and shaking it vigorously. "I would just like to tell you what a genuine thrill it was to meet you. I really loved that scene in Grundy II where you said; 'Blow it out your bazookas!' to the entire Iranian Navy.
"I was up two nights writing that line," Bronzini said, wondering if the guy was ever going to let go. Finally Curry disengaged and left the warehouse, walking backward. He said good-bye at least thirteen times. He was so impressed he never thought to ask Bronzini for his autograph. It was a first. Bronzini was almost disappointed. The tanks rolled across the border that night. They crossed arid desert to the checkpoint, where they stopped, forming a long snakelike column. They grumbled and coughed diesel fumes.
Customs gave the documents a cursory examination, stamped them as "Passed," and without a fight waved through the first invading force to cross into U. S. territory since the British Army took Washington in 1812.
The customs officials gathered around to watch. They smiled like boys watching a parade. The Japanese drivers, their helmeted heads poking up from the drivers' compartments like human jack-in-the-boxes, waved. Friendly salutes were exchanged. Nishitsu cameras on both sides flashed, and more than one voice asked "Do you see Bronzini? Is he in one of those things?"
Chapter 7
Remo changed planes in Phoenix for Yuma. He was not surprised, but neither was he happy to see that the Air West plane that would take him to Yuma was a small two-prop cloudhopper seating, at most, sixteen people in an incredibly narrow cabin. And no stewardess.
The plane took off and Remo settled back for the bumpy ride. He dug out Smith's folder to read his professional credits-or rather, Remo Durock's professional credits. Remo was amazed to read that he had been a stunt man in everything from Full Metal jacket to The Return of Swamp Thing. He wondered how the hell Smith could expect him to get away with that, but then remembered that one of the cardinal rules of stunt performing was to keep your face from the camera.
Remo's International Stunt Association card was clipped to the folder. He pulled it out and inserted it into his wallet. Remo was interested to read that he had won a Stuntman Award certificate for his work on Star Trek: The Next Generation. He had never watched Star Trek: The Next Generation. He looked to see if he had won an Oscar and was disappointed to find that he had not.
Less than ten minutes into the flight, the terrain under the plane's wing abruptly changed. Phoenix's suburbs gave way to desert, and the desert to mountains. The mountains were surrounded by more desert. For miles in every direction there was nothing but desolation. Only the rare ruler-straight road, passing through nothing and apparently going nowhere.
Then Yuma came into view like a surprise oasis. For the city was a virtual island in a sea of sand. It was green around the edges, thanks to the nearby Colorado River, and Remo's eyes, zeroing in on the flat lushness, recognized expansive lettuce beds fed by blue irrigation pipes. Beyond the lettuce fields, Yuma looked like any other desert community, except it was much larger than he had expected. Many of the homes had clay-red roofs. And almost every yard had a swimming pool. There were as many blue pools as red roofs.
Yuma International Airport-so called because it was a way station between the U. S. and Mexico-was much smaller than Remo had expected. The plane alighted and rolled to the tiny terminal.
Remo stepped out into the clear dry air that, even in late December, was immoderately warm. He followed the line of passengers into a terminal that seemed to consist of a gift shop around which someone had added a single ticket counter and a modest security and waiting area as an afterthought.
There was no one waiting for him in the waiting area, so Remo walked out the front entrance and looked for a studio representative.
Almost instantly a station wagon slithered up to the curb. An outdoorsy young woman with a cowboy hat over her long black hair leaned out of the window. She wore a fringed buckskin vest over a T-shirt. The shirt depicted two skeletons lounging on lawn chairs under a broiling sun and the words "But it's a dry heat."
"Are you Remo Durock?" she called in a chirping voice. Her eyes were gray in her open face.
Remo grinned. "Do you want me to be?"
She laughed. "Hop in, I'm Sheryl, unit publicist for Red Christrnas."
Remo climbed in beside her. "Where's your luggage?" she asked.
"I believe in traveling light."
"You should have brought your boots," Sheryl said as she piloted the station wagon onto the main drag.
"I thought it didn't snow in the desert," Remo remarked as he took note of the plasticky Christmas decorations that festooned the windows of every business establishment that whipped past them. They were identical to the decorations he had seen back east. Somehow, they looked tackier here in sun-soaked Arizona.
"It doesn't," Sheryl was saying. "But there are snakes and scorpions where you'll be working."
"I'll watch my step," Remo promised.
"This must be your first location shoot," Sheryl prompted.
"Actually I've been in a lot of stuff. Maybe you saw me in Star Trek: The Next Generation."
"You were in that? I've been a Trekker since I was six years old. Tell me which episode? I've seen them all." Remo thought fast.
"The one with the Martians," he ventured.
Sheryl's attractive face puckered. "Martians? I don't remember any Martians. Klingons, Romulans, Ferengi, yeah. But no Martians."
"They must not have aired that one yet," Remo said quickly. "I was the stunt double for the guy with the pointy ears."
Sheryl's eyes widened. "Not Leonard Nimoy?"
The name sounded familiar so Remo said, "Yes." He regretted it instantly.
"Leonard Nimoy's going to be in a Next Generation episode? Wow!"
"It was just a cameo role," Remo said, glancing into the file folder and the glossary of movie terms Smith had provided. "I was actually the stunt cameo double."
"I never heard of such a thing."
"I pioneered the concept," Remo said soberly. "It was quite an honor. I have my heart set on an Oscar."
"You mean an Emmy. Oscars are for films, not TV."
"That's what I meant. An Emmy. I almost got an Oscar, but some guy named Smith beat me out of it." Sheryl nodded.
"Too bad," she said. "But count yourself lucky. Unit publicists don't get Emmys or Oscars or any of that stuff. Actually, this is my first film. Until las
t week I was a cue-card girl at one of our TV stations here. It's such a hot potato that an experienced publicist wouldn't touch it, so I applied and here I am."
"Because of the union trouble?"
"You know it. You'll see when we get out to the location. We'll be running the gauntlet. But it's worth it. This film is going to be my ticket out of Yuma."
"Is it that bad?" Remo asked as they passed through the city and out into the desert. Remo saw lettuce beds on either side of the dusty road. They were the same beds he had seen from the air.
"It's a big, growing city, but it's in the middle of nowhere. Always has been, always will be. Uh-oh." Remo had been watching Sheryl's chiseled-in-sandstone profile as they talked. He looked out the windshield to see what had brought the frown to her pretty face. The road ahead was a swirl of boiling dust. Visible through it were the backs of several ponderous tracked machines. They were barely moving.
"Are those tanks?" Remo asked.
"Tanks they are. Hang on. I'm going to try to get around these dusty brutes."
Sheryl sent the car onto the soft shoulder of the road and crept around the tanks. They had stopped now, exhaling fumes into the settling dust. Remo rolled up his window.
As they sped past, Remo watched the inscrutable faces of the tank drivers that poked up from the drivers compartments.
"Unfriendly fellows, aren't they?" Sheryl said.
"Who are they?"
"Those are the Chinese extras."
"I hate to be the one to rain on anyone's fantasy, but those guys are Japanese."
"Almost everyone on the shoot is Japanese. As for the extras, who's going to notice or care?"
"You'd think a Japanese production would be more picky about details like that. Won't Red Christmas play over there too?"
"You're right. I hadn't thought of that. But that's not my problem. I handle all U. S. publicity. Bronzini hired me himself Although so far, there hasn't been much for me to do, which is why I'm making gofer runs half the time. No offense."
"None taken. Is Bronzini as big a jerk as I've heard he is?"
"I've barely spoken two words to him. But he reminds me of Grundy. He's just like him. Except for the headband. But you know, it's funny, I read everything I could on the fella before I started, and he's swearing up and down that he'd never do another Grundy movie. So I show up the first day, and what is it? A Grundy movie! They just call the character Mac. Go figure."
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