Shooting Schedule td-79 Page 12

  "As you wish," said Chiun, bowing once more. He held his hat before him in working fingers.

  As the two men trudged off, Sheryl stepped in front of the Master of Sinanju and put her hands on her hips. "You never, ever approach a star of Mr. Bronzini's magnitude again," she scolded. "And you don't repeat anything I tell you off the record."

  "He is amazing," Chiun said, watching Bronzini walk away.

  "He's very powerful. He could make or break my career. I hope you can regain your composure when he okays the interview. If he ever does."

  "He is the very image of Alexander." Sheryl blinked.

  "Alexander?"

  "Now I understand," Chiun said, gesturing to the array of soldiers and military equipment that ringed the arroyo. "No wonder he makes films such as these. They remind him of his glory days. It is sad that he should have come to this, however."

  "Come to what? Who's Alexander?"

  "The Great," said Chiun.

  Sheryl pursed her lips. "Yes ... ?" she prompted. "The great what?"

  Chiun's eye met Sheryl's. "Alexander the Great."

  "What on earth are you going on about?"

  "That man," Chiun said as he watched Bronzini's retreating back, "is the reincarnation of Alexander the Great. What else would explain his mania for reenacting the fury of battle?"

  "Oh, I'd say the twenty million dollars they pay him per film might have something to do with it."

  "He looks exactly like Alexander," Chiun went on. "The straight nose. The sleepy eyes. The sneering mouth."

  "Actually, I always thought of him as having Elvis Presley lips," Sheryl remarked. "And I take it you knew Alexander personally."

  "No, but one of my ancestors did. I wonder if Bronzini would remember."

  "I doubt it."

  "Good. That way he cannot bear a grudge against my house. "

  "Okay, I'll string along a little further. What house?" Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed.

  "I am forbidden to say, for I am here under cover. But one of my ancestors slew Alexander."

  "Really? Fancy that."

  "Oh, it was nothing personal, I assure you. I am glad that I met this Bronzini. And I look forward to speaking with him at length. It is very seldom that one encounters the truly great in the modern world."

  "Well, this is fascinating," Sheryl said distantly as she looked around the location, "but why don't we get started on the interviews? Let's see ... who can we set up first? I don't see Jiro. Bronzini's personal technical adviser won't be here till tomorrow. You already met Sunny Joe, our stunt coordinator. That was him with Bronzini. "

  "Yes," Chiun said quickly. "I would like to interview one of the stunt persons."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  "Yes. The name is Remo."

  "Remo. Remo Durok? You want to start with him?"

  "Yes, please upset it."

  "Set it up, you mean."

  "I mean what I say. Let others interpret it as they will. "

  "Remo doesn't have a speaking role. He's really unimportant. "

  "Can I quote you?" Chiun asked.

  "No! Don't quote me about anything!"

  "I will promise that if you take me to Remo." Chiun beamed.

  Sheryl looked around, biting her lower lip. "I don't see him anywhere. Let's head back to base camp. Someone must know where he is."

  At base camp, they were serving lunch in an orange-and-white-striped mess tent. Crewmen and extras lined up at a food-dispensing trunk.

  "Let's see what's for lunch, shall we?" Sheryl suggested. Chiun sniffed the air.

  "It is rice," he said.

  "How do you know that?"

  "They are Japanese. They eat rice. It is the only thing about them I do not detest."

  "Did your editor know about your ... uh ... attitude toward the Japanese when he sent you to this shoot?"

  "He is barely literate. Besides, I am not hungry."

  "Suit yourself. Let's see if there's anything we can do. Maybe there's something going on in the director's office. "

  The director's office was the last in a line of Nishitsu RV's. It was emblazoned with the Red Christmas logo, a Christmas tree bedecked with hand grenades and crossed ammunition belts superimposed over a mushroom cloud. Sheryl knocked on the door. Getting no answer, she turned to Chiun. "Guess it won't do any harm to poke our heads in."

  She opened the door and let Chiun go first.

  The Master of Sinanju found himself in a sparsely , furnished interior. The walls were covered with long rice-paper strips on which Japanese ideographs made vertical lines. Papers lay on a desk.

  "Not as neat as I expected," Sheryl noted.

  "The Japanese never show their true faces in public. This rat's nest you see is how they are when they think no one is looking."

  "I've seen worse," Sheryl said, looking around. "I guess this here's a copy of the script." She opened it up. "Now, don't this beat all? It's in Japanese too. Maybe there's an English translation somewhere about."

  Chiun went from strip to strip, reading. "These are accountings of provisions," he told Sheryl.

  "Doesn't surprise me none. It takes a lot to mount a movie of this scale. It's practically an epic."

  "Many weapons, much ammunition, and supplies. They have a great deal of rice."

  "They eat a lot of rice. You know that."

  "How long will this film take to finish?"

  "They told me the shooting schedule is four weeks."

  "Then they lied to you. According to this note, the shooting schedule is five days."

  Sheryl put her head next to Chiun's. She examined the paper.

  "You must be reading it wrong," she said. "You can't hardly film a sitcom in that time."

  "Are you conversant with Japanese writing?"

  "Well, no," Sheryl admitted.

  "I speak and read it fluently, and this stipulates that they will take Yuma in five shooting days."

  "Take?"

  "I am giving the literal translation. Is 'take' a movie term?"

  "Yes. But a take is a good scene. One they'll use. I can't imagine what they could mean by taking Yuma. I know they'll be filming in the city later on, but that can't be it."

  "I will gladly listen to your translation," Chiun told her coolly.

  "Don't be silly. Someone just made a mistake. This is a four-week production."

  "They have rice for nearly six months."

  "Says who?"

  "Says I. Just now." Chiun tapped another rice-paper strip. "According to this, they have rice for six months. Twice the amount they believe they will require."

  "Well, there you go. The other thing must be wrong, then. They wouldn't have a six-month supply of rice for a five-day shoot, now, would they?"

  "They would not have such a supply of rice for a four-month shooting schedule either," Chiun said slowly. "Why do they call it a shooting schedule?"

  "You've heard of shooting a picture?"

  "I have heard of taking a picture. Is that the 'take' they meant?"

  "No. When they film, they call it shooting a movie. Therefore, shooting schedule. Wait a minute. You should know that! You're a film correspondent."

  "I know it now," Chiun said, turning abruptly. "I would like to see their rice supply."

  "Why, for Pete's sake?"

  Before the Master of Sinanju could reply, a Japanese crewman leapt into the trailer.

  "What you do here?" he barked. "Off rimits!"

  "Oh, we were just looking for Jiro," Sheryl said.

  "Off rimits!" the Japanese repeated spitefully.

  "I don't think he speaks English," Sheryl whispered.

  "Allow me to answer this," Chiun said. He lapsed into guttural Japanese. The other man's face quirked in astonishment. He grabbed for the Master of Sinanju. Chiun sidestepped the thrust. The Japanese kept going. He fell on his face. He bounced to his feet and made another move toward the tiny Korean.

  "You cut this out, both of you!" Sheryl said, getting between the tw
o of them. "This here's Mr. Chiun. He's with Star File magazine. You behave yourself "

  The Japanese pushed her aside roughly and lunged at Chiun.

  Smiling, Chiun spoke a simple, pungent word in Japanese. "Yogore." His opponent howled and lunged. The Japanese went sailing past him, his feet tripping on the RV's steps. They scrambled for footing, but to no avail. He fell facedown into the gritty sand.

  Calmly the Master of Sinanju walked down his legs, over his back, and stepped off his head to alight on the sand. He turned.

  "Why do you loiter?" he asked Sheryl. "He will be awake soon."

  Sheryl looked around. There was no one in sight. "I'm with you," she said as she stepped over the man. As they slipped to the cluster of tents, Sheryl said in a tight voice, "You know, sometimes the atmosphere around here is so tense you can break off pieces and chew them instead of gum. If this is how these folks make movies, God help us if they ever take over our movie companies. I, for one, will be looking for a new line of work, thank you."

  The food-provision tent faced the busy food-service truck. Chiun and Sheryl ducked behind it.

  "How are we going to get in?" Sheryl asked, feeling the coarse fabric.

  "You will stand guard?"

  "Sure as shootin'."

  After Sheryl had turned her head, the Master of Sinanju plunged a fingernail into the cloth and slashed downward so swiftly the rip sound was compressed into a rude bark. He masked it by feigning a cough.

  "What's the matter, poor thing?" Sheryl asked. "Inhale some sand?"

  "Behold," Chiun said, pointing to the cloth. At first Sheryl couldn't see what he was talking about, but when Chiun touched the fabric, a vertical slit appeared as if by magic.

  "Well, how about that?" she said. "Must be our lucky day. "

  For the long tear exactly followed the line where a white stripe joined an orange one. Chiun held the tent open for her.

  "Must be a defect in the workmanship," Sheryl said when Chiun joined her inside the cool tent.

  " 'Workmanship' is not in the Japanese vocabulary," Chiun sniffed. He walked around the tent. It was crammed with burlap sacks. lie touched one, and felt the hard-packed rice grains give like gravel.

  "There is enough rice here to maintain many men for many months," he said gravely.

  "There you go. What'd I tell you?"

  "More than four weeks' supply. More than four months. Depending on the numbers of persons involved, perhaps nearly six months."

  "So, they're prepared. Like the Boy Scouts. Films do run beyond their shooting schedules."

  "It is not good that Bronzini leads them."

  "Why not?"

  "In his earlier existence, he was a dangerous man," Chiun mused. "He aspired to conquer the known world. Many suffered, not the least of which was my village in Korea. There was no work for as long as he massed his forces and conquered empires."

  "Look, I'm going to ask this straight out because it's starting to drive me crazy, but you aren't from the Enquirer, by any chance, are you?"

  "No. I am here officially from Star File magazine, although if the truth be known, I am a poet. In fact, I am thinking of writing of my experiences here in Ung poetry. The short form, of course. Regrettably, Star File magazine does not publish two thousand-page issues. I am thinking of calling it Chiun Among the Yumans. Perhaps I will consent to sell the movie rights now that I have contacts in this industry."

  "Look, we really shouldn't be here. Especially if we're going to be talking this trash. Let's skedaddle."

  "I have seen what I wish. Now I must speak with Remo. "

  "Okay, great. Let's find him."

  None of the A. D.'s could locate Remo, although their walkie-talkies crackled messages all over the location area. Finally the word came back.

  "Remo gone to Ruke," the A.D. informed them, and walked away.

  "Okay," Sheryl told Chiun. "You speak Japanese. You translate."

  "Is there a place known as Luke near here?" Chiun asked.

  "Luke? Sure, Luke Air Force Range. That must be it. Remo and Sunny Joe probably went there to do preproduction on the parachute drop they got set for tomorrow. If you don't mind waiting till tomorrow, we can watch them film it."

  "Perhaps I should speak to the Greekling," Chiun said.

  "The which?"

  "Bronzini."

  "He's Italian."

  "Now. Before, he was a Greekling."

  "Which movie was that?"

  "When he was Alexander."

  "I have a crackerjack idea," Sheryl said suddenly. "Let's get out of this sun. I think if we sat in the shade a spell, it would clear our heads right quick."

  The Master of Sinanju looked up at Sheryl inquisitively. "Why?" he asked. "Has the sun affected your mind?"

  Lee Rabkin thought it was the strangest negotiation session he had ever taken part in. As the president of the IATSE local, he had been involved in many bitter union disputes.

  He had expected the usual. After all, Red Christmas was a Japanese production. They did things a little differently. So when Rabkin received a call at two A. M. from producer Jiro Isuzu that the production, bending to Bartholomew Bronzini's preferences, had reconsidered their nonunion stand, and could he bring his negotiators to the location immediately-Isuzu had pronounced it "immediatry"-Lee Rabkin was up and banging on the others' doors before Isuzu heard the phone click.

  Nishitsu vans were waiting for the sleepy union protesters. They were driven in silence to the location and let off at a base camp of circled tents and RV's.

  Somewhere nearby, a portable gas generator started up with a coughlike complaint.

  Jiro Isuzu stepped out of an RV and bowed so low that Lee Rabkin took it as a sign of total surrender. "Ready to play ball, Isuzu?" He sneered.

  "Barr? Not understand. Brought you here to negotiate union rore in firm."

  "That's what I meant," Rabkin said in a superior voice, thinking: Boy, this Jap is dumb. No wonder he tried to dance around the union.

  "Forrow, prease," Isuzu said, turning smartly on his heel. "Negotiation trench has been prepared."

  "Trench?" someone whispered in Rabkin's ear. Rabkin shrugged unconcernedly and said, "Hell, they sit on the floor at mealtime. I guess they negotiate in trenches."

  They followed Jiro Isuzu beyond the base-camp tents and a short way into the desert. It was an eerie sight by moonlight. Hollows lay in impenetrable shadow and the gentle dunes resembled silvery frosting. Up ahead, three men stood in silhouette, AK-47's cradled to their chests.

  "What's with the guns?" a union member asked nervously.

  "It's a war picture," Rabkin said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  "Maybe they're rehearsing."

  Isuzu suddenly disappeared. Rabkin hurried to catch up and found that Isuzu had simply walked down a plank and into an eight-foot-deep trench in the sand. Shovels stood chucked on one side of the freshly dug pit.

  Isuzu called up, "Come, prease."

  "When in Rome, I guess," Rabkin muttered. He went in first. A guard hurried off to the generator. "They must be going to rig lights," Rabkin told the others following him into the trench.

  "Good. It's as black as a snake's asshole in here." When at last everyone was standing in the dark trench, Jiro Isuzu barked a quick command in Japanese.

  "Well, do we sit, or what?" Rabkin demanded, trying to see Isuzu's face in the murk.

  "No," Jiro Isuzu told him in a polite voice, you simpry die."

  And then Lee Rabkin's eyeballs seemed to explode from within. He felt the electric current ripple up through the soles of his feet and he fell on his face. His nose completed the circuit and fried his brains like scrambled eggs and cooked his corneas cataract white.

  Jiro Isuzu watched the bodies Jerk and fall disinterestedly. They smoked like bacon even after the electric current was shut off from the metal plates under the sand at their feet. Although it was again safe for him to walk from the trench, he preferred not to step over so many white-pupiled corps
es and accepted the hands that reached down to pull him off the protective rubber mat that was the same beige shade as the sand.

  Isuzu threw another order over his shoulder and walked off without a backward glance. Dawn was only an hour away, and there was still much to do. . . .

  Chapter 11

  On the morning of December 23, a Canadian cold front descended on the United States of America, plunging the nation into below-zero temperatures. On this historic day, the two warmest cities of the country were Miami, Florida, and Yuma, Arizona. And it was not warm in Yuma.

  When the morning sun broke over the Gila mountains, Bartholomew Bronzini had been up an hour. He had a quick breakfast in the Shilo Inn restaurant, then returned to his room to do his morning workout.

  When he stepped out of the lobby, two things surprised him. The first was the cold. It felt like forty degrees. The other was the absence of union picketers. Bronzini ducked back into the lobby.

  "No pickets today?" he asked the girl at the registration desk. "What goes on?"

  The receptionist leaned closer. "I have a girlfriend at the Ramada," she whispered. "That's where they're staying. She says they left in the middle of the night without paying their bill."

  "Probably ran out of money. Thanks."

  There were no picketers at the location access road when Bronzini blasted his Harley-Davidson onto it. He passed the checkpoint, which consisted of two Japanese guards standing near the destroyed T-62 tank.

  The guards attempted to wave him to a stop. Bronzini didn't bother to slow down.

  "They must be joking, trying to keep me off my own set," he muttered. "Who do they think they're dealing with? Heather Locklear?"

  The base camp was deserted. Off in the near distance, one of the prop tanks was chugging back and forth in the sand. It had a bifurcated plow blade mounted on the front. The tank used the blade to make piles of sand and push them into a hole.

  Bronzini sped up to the main-unit location. He got a surprise when he turned the corner.

  There were over a thousand men lined up in battalion formation. They wore brown People's Liberation Army uniforms and stood with their AK-47's at parade rest. On either side of them, the tanks and APC's had been lined up in ruler-straight rows. Tank commanders and crewmen clustered in front of the waiting machines. Jiro Isuzu stood facing them, his back to Bronzini.