"Ah, I understand now. There was a probrem. Kurosawa unabre to direct Red Christmas. Have been meaning to inform you of this unhappy act. So sorry."
"Don't 'so sorry' me. I'm sick of 'so sorry.' And I'm still waiting for that explanation."
"I was assured by Mr. Kurosawa's representative that he wourd be abre to direct firm. It appears we were misinformed. Serious breach of etiquette, for which satisfaction wirr be demanded and aporogies no doubt tendered by the responsibre persons."
"Satisfaction! My only satisfaction would have been working with Kurosawa. He's a master."
"This very regrettabre. Mr. Nishitsu himserf wirr no doubt convey his regrets to you when he arrive."
"I can hardly fucking wait," Bartholomew Bronzini said acidly. He threw up his hands. "So who is directing?" Isuzu bowed.
"I have that honor," he said.
Bronzini stopped dead. His droopy dachshund eyes narrowed, if that was possible. His wildly gesticulating hands paused in the air, as if captured in amber.
His "You?" was very tiny but very, very vehement. Jiro Isuzu took an involuntary step backward.
"Yes," he said softly.
Bartholomew Bronzini stepped up to him and leaned over. Even leaning, he towered over the Japanese. And Bronzini was not very tall.
"How many films have you directed, Jiro, baby?"
"None. "
"Then it's real sporting of you to offer to pick up the pieces." Bronzini said airily. "After all, this is only a fucking six-hundred-million-dollar epic. It's only my comeback film. It's not even important. Hell, why bother with a director at all? Why don't we all just jump in the sand and play until we get enough footage to edit down into a cartoon? Because that's what this is developing into--a fucking joke."
"I wirr do good job. I promise."
"No. No chance. I'm putting my foot down now. Production stops. We do a search. We find an experienced director. Then we start. Not before. You read me?"
"No time. Camera rorr tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is the day before Christmas Eve," Bronzini told him as if speaking to a very slow child.
"Mr. Nishitsu move up schedule."
"Let me see the shooting schedule."
"Not avairabre. So sorry."
"Fine. Excellent. It's not available. There's no shooting schedule, no director. All we have is a star, more tanks than Gorbachev, and you. Wonderful. I'm going back to the hotel and ask the head chef to help me hold my head in the oven, because I'm so blind pissed off, I'd probably screw it up."
Fists clenched, Bronzini started for the tent flap. "No," Jiro said. "We need you."
Bronzini halted. He whirled. He couldn't believe Isuzu was pressing the point. The guy had nerve. "For what?" he asked flatly.
"Talk to Marines and Air Force."
"About what?"
"Because we start earry, not arr extra arrive from Japan. We wirr ask to use American servicemen. Arso, equipment. Big parachute drop shoot tomorrow."
"I don't remember a parachute drop."
"Parachute drop in new draft. Written rast night."
"Who put that in?" Bronzini asked in a suspicious voice.
"I do so."
"Why aren't I in the least surprised, Jiro? Tell me that. Why?"
Isuzu coughed into his hand. "Script mine," he said defensively. "Mine and Mr. Nishitsu's."
"Let's not forget who wrote the first draft," Bronzini said bitterly. "You remember the pre-tank draft, the one set in Chicago?"
"You will receive proper screen credit for contribution, of course. Come. Prease to forrow me."
"You want my help, you gotta help me in return."
"Beg pardon?" Isuzu said.
"This union thing. I want it solved. By tomorrow. That's my price for my cooperation."
Jiro Isuzu hesitated. "Union dispute wirr be sorved before camera rorr. Acceptabre to you?"
Bronzini blinked. "Yeah. It is," he said, taken by surprise.
Jiro Isuzu stepped from the tent smartly. Bronzini followed him with his volcanic blue eyes. With a grunt of surprise, he wrestled his Harley up from the ground and pushed it from the tent.
On his way out, he nearly ran down Sunny Joe Roam, who was trailed by several Japanese extras and one American.
"I got them to corkscrew just like you said, Mr. Bronzini," Sunny Joe rumbled.
"Fine. Now go learn Japanese," Bronzini said as he mounted the bike and kicked the starter. "Because you're going to need it."
Roam laughed. "Once you get to know him," he whispered to Remo, "he's a great kidder. Here, let me introduce you. Bart, I want you to meet Remo. He's' our stunt American. He'll be doubling for you."
Remo put out his hand, thinking that if he was going to watch over Bronzini, he'd better swallow his dislike for the man and make friends.
"I'm a big fan," he lied.
"Then why don't I feel a breeze?" Bronzini sneered, ignoring the offered hand. He roared off after a Nishitsu production van.
"Wonder what's eating him?" Sunny Joe said.
"He always acts like his jockstrap is too tight," Remo said. "I read it in a magazine."
The base commander of the Yuma Marine Air Station was stoic when Bartholomew Bronzini stepped into his office. Jiro Isuzw hung unobtrusively behind him.
"Let me say from the start," Colonel Emile Tepperman said brusquely, "that I've never seen one of your films." Bartholomew Bronzini allowed a sheepish expression to settle over his hangdog face.
"It's not too late," he quipped. "They're all on video."
His crooked grin was not returned. He wasn't sure if that was because the Marine officer was a no-nonsense type, or that this was further proof, if any was needed, that Bartholomew Bronzini's strong suit was not standup comedy. He also wasn't sure why he was playing along with this dog-and-pony show. As angry as he felt, he was a professional. He was going to finish this movie on schedule-whatever the schedule was-and get the hell out.
"Sit down and tell me what it is you want the Corps to do for you," Colonel Tepperman suggested.
"We'd like the use of your base for a day or two," Bronzini said. "Starting tomorrow."
"Funny time to be starting a film. So close to the holidays. "
"We'll be shooting through the holidays," Bronzini told him. "Can't be helped, sir. I figure it might be less disruptive with your soldiers on leave."
"I don't have the authority to grant such permission," the colonel said slowly, eyeing Isuzu. "We have an ongoing signals intelligence operation at this base."
"Who does have the authority?" Bronzini asked coolly.
"The Pentagon. But I hardly think they'd entertain-"
"So far, we have received great cooperation from your State Department, Congress, and rocal raw authorities," Jiro Isuzu broke in urgently.
The colonel considered the Japanese's words.
"I suppose I could make a phone call," he said reluctantly. "How many days would this entail?"
"Two," Isuzu said. "Not more than three. We would also require the use of uniformed personnel."
"For what?" Colonel Tepperman asked suspiciously.
"As extras."
"You want to use my people in your movie?"
"Yes, sir," Bronzini said, catching the ball. "I did it all the time in the Grundys. Hollywood extras don't move or act like real soldiers. They don't know how to handle weapons realistically."
The colonel nodded. "I stopped going to war movies years ago. Couldn't stand the imbecilic things I saw. You know, in one film they had some idiot running around with an U. S. M-120 grenade launcher attached to a Kalashnikov rifle."
"That will never, repeat, never happen in this film," Bronzini promised. "We know our weapons."
Colonel Tepperman reached for his telephone. "Okay. I'll make that call," he said decisively. "Do you have a part for a Marine colonel in this movie of yours?" Bronzini looked to Jiro with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes," the Japanese said smoothly. "This very ambitious firm. We have par
ts for as many men as you have. But they must bring own weapons. We wirr need many authentic American weapons."
"We have all you need."
"Of course, they must be roaded with prop burrets."
"Damn straight," Colonel Tepperman said as he listened to the ringing in his phone receiver. "Hello, put me through to the commandant of the Marine Corps." The base commander at Luke Air Force Range was stubborn.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I can't allow this," said Colonel Frederick Davis. "I appreciate what you have in mind, but I can't have a movie crew tramping all over my base. Too irregular."
"We wirr not require to be on the base for very rong," Jiro Isuzu said eagerly. "An afternoon at most." Bronzini noticed the Japanese was sweating. On a shooting schedule this tight, it was no wonder.
"No, I doubt it," Colonel Davis was saying.
"I'm sorry." Bronzini broke in. "What we want to do, sir, is a massive parachute drop, using as many airmen as you can spare."
"You want me to provide airmen?" Bronzini nodded.
"In full gear."
"We wirr suppry the parachute, of course," Isuzu said. "And pay arr operating expense. Okay by you?"
"And a per diem for everyone," Bronzini added. He noticed a faint gleam appear in the colonel's evasive eyes. "My God, man, do you realize what's involved? You'll need C-130 Hercules transports."
"We'd like three," Bronzini said with calm assurance.
"We want to have the men drop into the Yuma Desert. Naturally, we'll need to film the planes taking off from here. And the operation in its entirety."
"Sounds spectacular," Colonel Davis mused. He had never been in combat, never participated in a military operation on the scale this flat-cheeked actor was describing.
"Think of the publicity for the Air Force," Bronzini said. "In the script, they are the forces that engage the invading Chinese on the ground and destroy them."
The colonel thought long and quietly.
"You know," he said, sitting up in his chair, "our recruitment people tell me that every time you do a Grundy film, enlistments go up twenty percent in all branches of the service."
"Maybe this time it'll be thirty. Or forty."
"Sounds tempting. But it is a lot to ask. I don't think I could get the Pentagon to go along."
"Marines arready say yes," Jiro Isuzu inserted.
The colonel's face clouded over. "Those jarheads," he muttered. "What kind of parts are they getting?"
"Their base is overrun by Chinese Red Army in first reer," Jiro told him.
"He means the first reel," Bronzini translated.
"I might be persuaded to make a few phone calls," Colonel Davis said. "But you'll have to do something for me in return."
"Name it," Bronzini said. "An autograph? A photo?"
"Don't be absurd, man. I don't want any of that worthless junk. I want to be the first man out of the plane. "
"Done," said Bartholomew Bronzini, rising to his feet. He shook the colonel's hand. "You won't regret this, sir."
"Call me Fred, Bart."
Chapter 10
Sheryl Rose wondered what kind of a name Chiun was as she pulled up to the Yuma International Airport terminal. It sounded Asian. Probably Japanese. He'd almost have to be to cover this film. She parked the studio van at the curb and stepped inside.
There was only one man waiting inside. He was about five feet tall and wore a colorful silk robe. He looked lost, and Sheryl's heart went out to him.
"Are you Mr. Chiun?" she asked.
The tiny Asian man turned stiffly and said, "I am Chiun."
"Well, howdy, I'm Sheryl. From the studio."
"They sent a woman?"
"I'm the only unit publicist on Red Christmas," she said pleasantly. "Take me or leave me, but I hope you like me."
"Who will carry my luggage?" the little Asian asked plaintively. Sheryl noticed his shiny head, bald but for little cloudlike puffs over each fragile ear.
"No hat? Didn't your editor tell you that the sun is very, very strong in Arizona? You'll get a terrible sunburn going around like that."
"What is wrong with my attire?" demanded Chiun, looking down at his robe. It was cactus green. Scarlet and gold dragons marched across the chest.
"You'll need a hat."
"I am more concerned about my luggage."
"Now, don't you fret, I'll take care of it. Meanwhile, why don't you step into the gift shop and treat yourself to some headgear?"
"My head is fine."
"Oh, don't be shy," Sheryl told the sweet old man. "The studio will be glad to pay for it."
"Then I will be happy to take you up on your generous offer. My luggage is in that corner," he said, gesturing with his impossibly long fingernails to several lacquered trunks stacked at odd angles in the waiting area. Then he disappeared into the gift shop.
Sheryl touched one experimentally. It felt like it was filled with hardened concrete.
"Me and my helpful mouth," she said as she struggled to wrestle the top trunk to the floor.
An hour later, she had got the final trunk to the curb. "Perhaps you need assistance from a man," Chiun said. His head was tilted back so he could see over the floppy brim of a ten-gallon cowboy hat.
"Do you see any stray helpful males?" she asked him, looking around.
"No. Perhaps I should help?"
"Oh, I can handle it," Sheryl puffed, thinking: What a sweet little man. He looked positively frail enough to break in a stiff breeze. God knew what would happen if he tried to pitch in. He might have a heart attack or some such thing.
Finally she hoisted the last trunk into the back.
"Do you always travel with five steamer trunks?" she asked as she climbed behind the wheel, checking the rearview mirror to grimace at the dusty sweat-streaked mask her face had become.
"No. Normally it is fourteen."
As she drove away, Sheryl breathed a prayer of thankfulness that he had decided to travel light this time. "I'll bet you're excited about interviewing Bronzini," Sheryl said as they pulled onto the desert location twenty minutes later.
"Which one is he?" Chiun asked as base camp came into view. His hazel eyes narrowed at the sight of so many uniformed men.
"I don't see His Bronzeness at the moment," Sheryl said, looking around.
"I am unfamiliar with that form of address."
"It's just a little joke around the set. They call Bronzini the Bronze Bambino. Some of the trades refer to him as 'Your Bronzeness.' I thought everyone knew that."
"I do not. But then, I am not everyone," Chiun said haughtily, "I am Chiun."
"O-kay." Sheryl cranked down her window and spoke to a Japanese grip. "Where's Bronzini?"
"Overseeing setup on first unit," she was told. "Thanks," Sheryl said, setting the van in motion. They bounced and weaved into the vast arroyo where the tanks were arrayed. "This is where they'll be filming the main desert battle sequences between the Chinese invaders and the American defense forces," she explained. "Do you know the story line?"
"No," Chiun said distantly. He was looking at the milling Japanese. They stared back with suspicious eyes.
"Maybe you should take notes. Or do you use a tape recorder?"
"I use my infallible memory, which requires neither sharpening or batteries."
"Suit yourself."
"Why are those men wearing Chinese uniforms?"
"Those are the extras. They play the Chinese invasion force."
"But those are Japanese!" Chiun hissed.
"Do tell. Almost everyone on this set is Japanese."
"This is foolishness, Chiun sputtered. How can they expect people to believe their story when they have crafty Japanese pretending to be lazy Chinese?"
"I take it you belong to neither category," Sheryl remarked dryly.
"I am obviously Korean," Chiun said testily.
"I did notice that you can handle your L's," Sheryl said. "I guess people from your side of the world notice the difference better than
we Americans." She pulled the van into the shadow of a sandhill.
"A worm would notice the difference. A grasshopper would notice. An American possibly would have to have it explained to him. Twice."
"Well, come on. Let's find Bronzini. It shouldn't be hard. He'll be the one with barbells in each hand."
As they stepped from the van, a red-and-white Bell Ranger helicopter lifted over a ridge and orbited the arroyo. It settled down in the clearing, rotors kicking up sand. A door popped open.
"That's the camera ship and there's his Bronzeness, making another spectacular entrance," Sheryl pointed out. Two men stepped from the helicopter.
"I must interview him. At once," Chiun said firmly.
"Wait a sec. You don't just walk up to him. First, I have to clear it with Jiro. Then he has to take it up with His Bronzeness. He tells me, and I tell you. That's the way it works around here."
"He will speak to me," said Chiun, storming for the helicopter, where the two men stood engaged in earnest conversation. The Master of Sinanju ignored the shorter man, and accosted the taller one.
"I am Chiun, famous author," he said in a loud voice. "The readers of my magazine are clamoring for an answer to the most pressing issue of the day. Namely, how can you expect to have any properly colored persons take your movie seriously if you insult their intelligence with Japanese pretending to be Chinese?"
Bill "Sunny Joe" Roam looked down at the querulous face and said, "You're barking up the wrong tree, chief."
"Something I can do for you?" Bartholomew Bronzini asked, his face quirked with amusement. He looked down at a ten-gallon hat that might have belonged to a rodeo clown.
Sheryl Rose broke in.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bronzini," she said hastily. "He got away from me. This is Mr. Chiun, from Star File magazine. "
"Now you call him Mr. Bronzini," Chiun said huffily. "A moment ago he was His Bronzeness."
Sheryl's eyes widened in horror. But before Bronzini could react, the little Asian stepped back so he could see past his hat brim.
"You!" the Master of Sinanju gasped. Quickly he composed his features and executed a formal, if stiff, bow. "I am surprised to see you here, great one," he said guardedly.
"I'm still getting used to it myself," Bronzini grunted. "Mind if we do this later? The interview, I mean."
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