Fade to Black td-119 Read online

  Tortilli shot him a worried glance. "Did you say Chiun?" he asked, voice betraying concern.

  Remo raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Why?"

  Tortilli bit his cheek. "Oh, no reason," he said with forced casualness. Tugging the creases from the knees of his purple pants, he leaned forward. He rapped his knuckles on the lip of the lowered privacy screen.

  "Hurry up," he whispered urgently to the limo driver.

  When he glanced back at Remo, his smile was weak.

  THE WARDROBE TRAILER for Chiun's film had been stuffed mostly with police uniforms gathered from the main wardrobe department of Taurus Studios. Since the film wasn't a period piece, the street clothes the bit players and extras wore onto the lot were generally usable for any given scene. Even so, there were still a few costumes other than uniforms hanging on the racks. These mostly consisted of ordinary suits. The wardrobe mistress directed the Master of Sinanju to one of these.

  "It'll be a little big on you, but we can fix you up," she assured him, holding out the doublebreasted suit.

  Chiun looked first at the suit, then at the woman. "You are joking," he said dryly, as if she'd just asked him to crawl into the belly of a dead horse. "I will not wear that."

  The wardrobe mistress was surprised by his strong reaction. "It's just a suit, sir," she stressed.

  "'Just' is correct," Chiun sniffed. "The Master of Sinanju does not wear 'just' an anything. The garment defines the man. I am defined by more than just a 'just.'"

  Spinning, he marched boldly over to the racks of police uniforms. "I would wear one of these," he proclaimed after an instant's inspection.

  The woman laughed, assuming the tiny Asian was making a joke. After all, he'd make about as convincing a police officer as Wally Cox. But when she saw his withering glare, the laughter died in her throat.

  "I guess that's okay," she ventured slowly as she replaced the plain gray business suit on the rack. "But any of those would have to be taken in to fit you, as well."

  "Yes, yes," Chiun dismissed. He stroked his wisp of beard as he made his way down the line of blue uniforms.

  The wardrobe mistress trailed behind him. She'd indulge the little man, even though it didn't really matter. Whatever he picked out, it would absolutely not make it into the finished film. She was only supposed to keep the old nuisance busy. This in mind, she forced a patient expression as she stood at Chiun's shoulder.

  As he walked, Chiun periodically reached out to feel material. A sleeve here, a lapel there. He harrumphed his disapproval each time.

  At the far end of the rack, the Master of Sinanju stopped abruptly. "This is my costume," he gasped, ecstatic.

  Grasping hands stuffed deep into the rack, from the knot of uniforms, he extracted an ornate outfit. Gold piping surrounded the cuffs. Matching braids hung from epaulets on each shoulder. It looked as if it hadn't seen the light of day since the silent era.

  "That's a little out of date," the woman warned.

  "Fashion is fleeting, but style is timeless," Chiun sang happily. He thrust the uniform at the woman. "Tailor it."

  The wardrobe mistress bit her tongue. "Whatever you say, sir," she said tightly. She gathered the material in her arms.

  "I will endeavor to find more to complement my costume," Chiun chimed. Face gleeful, he dived back into the racks.

  As the wardrobe woman turned from the squealing lump of bouncing costumes, she had already made an important career decision. If this uniform actually made it into the final print, she would petition to have her name struck from the film's credits. For the survival of the uniform into the finished print would be a sign of something much larger. A box-office bomb.

  Eyeing the garish uniform, she doubted her career would survive an explosion of that magnitude.

  "I THINK he's gonna be gone for a while," William Scott Cain said in a hoarse whisper. Sweat dotted his upper lip.

  The simple boom shot they'd just finished had taken more than forty minutes. The crew was setting up to film the same shot from a different angle.

  Lester Craig nodded anxiously. Cold perspiration stained his underarms. "Now would be a good time," he hissed. "While they're busy."

  "The setups aren't taking long," whispered another extra, whose truck bomb had been parked closest to the outdoor set on which they stood. Nervous red blotches had erupted all across his chiseled face and tanned neck. "They could be ready any minute."

  All nine of the bombers wanted desperately to leave, yet not one of them moved. Fear of the crazed Asian screenwriter rooted them in place. Lester's panicked eyes scanned the New York set. There was still no sign of the psycho Korean. "Look," he said reasonably. "We don't have a whole hell of a lot of time to get out as it is. Either we get blown to bits or he kills us as we try to escape."

  "He's so damn fast, though," someone said softly.

  "And he sneaks up on you like a frigging cat," another offered. "I bet he's out there right now. Watching us."

  Nine pairs of worried eyes scanned the area. Lester shook his head sharply. "This is ridiculous. We're gonna be blown up, for Christ's sake. I'm taking my chances."

  Shoulders tensed, he took a single sidestep from the group. The rest of the men held their breath. Nothing happened. The demented old Asian who had filled their lives with fear for days didn't come swooping like an angry hawk out of the shadows. Lester took another hesitant step. Then another. The crew failed completely to notice, they were so occupied with their own tasks.

  Lester made his increasingly rapid way through the cluster of technical and service people toward the edge of the set.

  He was home free. It was clear the old man wasn't hiding nearby after all. The fuse was lit for the rest.

  They had almost no time left.

  The remaining extras went from zero to sixty in one second. They flew-running, shoving, screaming-across the set. Scripts and wires flew everywhere. Booms toppled into cameras in their frantic rush for safety.

  A cameraman was pushed into Arlen Duggal. Staggering, he looked up in time to see his handful of extras fleeing the set like the people of Pompeii before the rushing lava.

  Even as he shouted after them, his first thought was that Chiun had returned to the set. But the old Korean was nowhere to be seen. And soon neither were his extras.

  THE FREEWAY CONGESTION gave way near an offramp. It was a mad dash to the Hollywood studios of Taurus. To Remo, the time spent in the limo seemed longer than the plane ride that had preceded it.

  Remo was greatly relieved to see the familiar broad white walls of the studio and the huge silver water tower rising high above the lot. He had feared they'd find nothing more than a smoking crater.

  The limo squealed to a stop at the main gates. Unimpressed by one limousine in a town of thousands, the guard on duty was taking his time walking from his shack until Quintly Tortilli shoved his frantic, knotted face out the back window. "Get your fat ass out of the way!" the director screamed, squinting against the bright sunlight.

  The guard recognized him at once. Running into the booth, he raised the wooden arm. As the limo sped onto the lot, Tortilli smiled tightly at Remo. "Fame has its perks," he said.

  "Yeah," Remo replied. He was already scanning for the Master of Sinanju. "It gets you into the belly of a bomb that much faster."

  They raced deeper into the tight cluster of whitewashed buildings.

  CHIUN STOOD on a squat stool in the wardrobe trailer. His pipe-stem arms were stretched out wide as the wardrobe mistress fussed around the hem of his uniform.

  Three body-length mirrors-the two on either side angled slightly inward-stood across from the Master of Sinanju. He was admiring his reflection in the polished glass.

  "If only Remo could see me now," Chiun lamented. His eyes were moist.

  The wardrobe mistress knew by now that Remo was the old man's son. Adopted. But a good boy nonetheless. Most of the time.

  "I'm sure he'd like it." She smiled through a mouthful of straight pins.

 
"Perhaps," Chiun said. "Perhaps not. My son wears underwear as a shirt and calls it style. However, it would be nice to have someone to show off to. Have you contacted the magicians Bindle and Marmelstein as I have instructed?"

  "They're out to lunch."

  "Remo has said that about them many times," Chiun nodded. "Have they left the studio?"

  "That's what they said at the front office."

  "Why would they not eat here?" Chiun asked, puzzled. "The dining hall of the commissar now serves adequate rice."

  "That seems like all they serve here now. Maybe they don't like rice," the wardrobe woman suggested. She straightened, rubbing her lower back. "All finished."

  All thoughts of the studio executives were banished. Chiun turned to examine himself in the mirrors.

  The old-fashioned commissioner's dress uniform he had chosen was not enough for the Master of Sinanju. He had garnished it with his own small touches.

  In addition to the gold braids, cuff stripes and shoulder boards that had originally been on the dark blue suit, he had added every police medal he could find on every other uniform and in every case in the wardrobe trailer. With all of these arranged around the chest and back of the uniform, the old Korean now looked like a Communist premier-Christmas tree hybrid.

  He had decided that blue was too somber a color for him and so had collected a bright green woman's scarf from a wall peg. He had instructed the wardrobe mistress to pin the scarf under the epaulet of his right shoulder and then pull it to the left side of his shiny leather belt.

  His holster was empty, for he refused to carry a handgun. In it, he had arranged a pair of fiery red gloves. They spilled out near the knot in his makeshift sash.

  "It is perfect," he announced, a catch in his voice.

  "Maybe I should redo that cuff," the woman ventured.

  Chiun had noticed her stall tactics early on. He had encouraged her to move more quickly.

  The Master of Sinanju shook his head. "It is magic time," he intoned, stepping grandly from his stool.

  Chiun gathered up one last garment from the floor.

  Somehow, he had managed to locate a Napoleon hat. The woman still had no idea where he'd found that item. He'd had to stuff it with a dress shirt in order to make it fit.

  Chiun perched the hat on his bald head. He examined his image in the mirrors one last time before turning.

  "I am ready to make history," he breathed. Huge black boots clomped loudly as the tiny Korean marched from the trailer.

  REMO SPOTTED the truck immediately. The big Plotz rental was parked near the front of Soundstage 2, its back closed tightly.

  He sprang from the limo and ran to the truck. No one in the immediate vicinity seemed interested in either him or the vehicle. If it had belonged to a film that was being shot on the Taurus lot, someone would have been yelling at him to get away from it by now.

  Quintly Tortilli jogged up from the limo. "What's wrong?" he panted.

  "There's the first bomb," Remo replied, jerking a thumb toward the truck.

  Tortilli blanched. "Should-should we drive it out of here?" the director whispered, as if his voice alone might set it off.

  "That's one way to clear freeway congestion," Remo said dryly. "We have to figure out a way to disarm it." He reached for the lock on the truck's back door.

  Tortilli leaped between him and the truck. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" the director snapped. "You can't even figure out how to run a radio."

  "Are you volunteering?" Remo said evenly.

  Tortilli considered. "Hey, I only do movie explosions," he said finally, taking a nervous step back.

  As the director watched anxiously, Remo snapped the thick chain that had been wrapped around the rear handle. Tortilli held his breath as Remo threw open the door.

  The bomb didn't go off.

  Tortilli exhaled relief. He'd been afraid that it was somehow wired to the handle. When he inhaled, the biting stench from two and a half tons of ammonium nitrate left baking in the Californian sun burned his nostrils. Retching, he pulled the lapel of his polyester suit jacket over his mouth and nose.

  Remo kept his own breathing shallow as he climbed into the fetid trailer.

  Wan light filtered through the translucent plastic roof. Ominous piles of fertilizer lurked in the shadows.

  "Hey, Remo?" Tortilli called from outside, his voice muffled by his suit coat.

  "Stop using my name," Remo replied absently. "People will think I know you." He looked around for a detonator, not sure what he'd do when he actually found one.

  "There's some guys heading this way," Tortilli pressed.

  Remo was frowning deeply. "Tell them to run."

  "They are running." Tortilli was looking away from the truck, deeper into the center of the studio complex. "I think maybe..." His darting eyes squinted. "I know one of them!" he announced suddenly. "From Seattle!" When Remo spun to him, the director had dropped his jacket from his face. "The Dregs!" he cried anxiously. "He must be one of the bombers!"

  Remo stuck his head around the rear of the truck. A group of nine men was racing madly in their direction. Screaming as they went, they shoved people out of the way as they ran, fear and exertion filling their sweat-streaked faces. They ran like men who had glimpsed the future.

  Jumping from the truck, Remo flew to the waiting limo. He flung open the rear door.

  "Quick! Inside!" Remo yelled to the running men.

  Sheer panic offset good judgment. The nine men dived and scrambled into the back of the car. Remo hopped in behind them, slamming the door on the studio lot.

  In the limo, the men were panting and swallowing.

  "We've got to get out of here!" one of them cried. "This place is going to blow!"

  Their guilt confirmed, Remo needed to get their attention. Fast. Reaching over, he grabbed one of the men by the throat. He jerked up.

  The extra rocketed off the seat at supersonic speed, his skull impacting with a metallic thud against the roof of the car. The roof gave. The man's head gave more.

  When Remo dropped him back to the seat, the extra's head was as flat as the bottom of a frying pan. He dumped the dead man into the foot well.

  The panting around him stopped with a single unified gasp. Eight pairs of sick eyes were riveted on Remo.

  "How many bombs, and where are they?" Remo pressed.

  It was Lester Craig who answered. His expression was ill as he glanced at the lifeless form of William Scott Cain.

  "Six," he admitted weakly. "All over."

  "You all know how to disarm them?" he demanded.

  Rapid nods all around.

  "You're first," Remo said, grabbing Lester by the shirt.

  When he popped the rear limo door, Quintly Tortilli had to jump from its path. Remo dragged Lester onto the road.

  "What's going on?" Tortilli pressed nervously. Remo didn't respond. Striding past the director, he flung Lester through the open back of the parked truck. The extra landed on a pile of reeking fertilizer.

  Hopping onto the rear platform, Remo grabbed the door.

  "Work fast," he instructed coldly.

  He pulled the door closed on the panicked would-be bomber, crushing the lock to prevent escape.

  Jumping down, Remo hurried over to the limousine. When he stuck his head inside, seven frightened faces darted up from the body of William Scott Cain.

  "How many more of you assholes are here?" Seven heads shook in unison. "None," seven fearful voices chirped.

  A minor silver lining. No one left to set off the remaining bombs. But that wouldn't matter if time ran out on even one of them.

  Remo's thoughts spun to the Master of Sinanju. Fear for Chiun's safety kept him from asking how soon the bombs were set to go off. By the looks on the faces of his captives, it had to be any minute. He hopped into the limo, barking over his shoulder, "Get onto the stages. Warn everyone to clear the lot."

  Anxiety flooded Tortilli's face, yet the director didn't argue. As Remo's limo to
re off in a squeal of smoking tires, Quintly Tortilli ran toward the nearest soundstage.

  Chapter 13

  When Chiun strode grandly onto the set, resplendent in his altered police commissioner's uniform, he was certain his magnificent raiment would cause a jealous stir. Unfortunately, at the instant he appeared, he was upstaged before both cast and crew by some unknown interloper who came racing onto the New York mock-up from the opposite direction.

  "It's a bomb!" Quintly Tortilli was screaming at the top of his lungs. His eyes bugged wildly as he ran, arms flailing.

  Arlen Duggal turned to the commotion. "Quintly?" the assistant director asked, as if seeing a ghost. He seemed both surprised and relieved at once.

  "It's a bomb, Arlen!" Tortilli screamed, grabbing the A.D. by the biceps.

  Arlen pitched his voice low. "I've been thinking the same thing," he whispered. "But no one will listen."

  He sucked in his breath when Tortilli squeezed his arms tighter, a look of mad desperation in his eyes.

  "Clear the studio!" Tortilli screamed. "There are bombs set to go off all around us! They're blowing up the studio!"

  A crowd was gathering.

  "What are you saying, Quintly?" Arlen asked, confused.

  "The extras! The extras planted truck bombs!" Tortilli released the man, spinning to the others nearby. "This whole studio is one big bomb! Run for your lives!"

  His frantic mannerisms sent a charged ripple of fear through the crowd. As one, those gathered suddenly remembered the urgency with which the missing extras had been running. As if for their own lives.

  There was a single frightened moment of clarity. Then hysteria.

  Men yelled; women screamed. The pandemonium rippled out from Tortilli all across the set. By the time it reached the approaching Master of Sinanju, it was a tidal wave.

  People ran in every direction. Whatever they'd been doing was abandoned. Whatever they'd been holding was flung aside in their desperate charge for safety.

  Eyes narrowing to furious slits, Chiun clomped in his big boots through the stampeding mob.

  A burly teamster tried to shove the tiny Asian out of his way. His crumpled body fell in the wake of the crowd. No one offered him a hand.