Warren Murphy: Fade to Black

"Pah. Smith," Chiun sniffed. "He has hidden my light under his demented bushel basket far too long."

"Smitty's okay," Remo disagreed. He was thinking of the past few days. Smith had become human to Remo in a way he did not like. "It's not his fault they cut you out. That sort of thing happens all the time." He regretted saying it the instant it passed his lips. "I think- I mean, I assume. I guess. Probably." He abruptly changed the subject. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where Tortilli is?"

Chiun didn't reply right away. He was staring at his pupil's guilty silhouette.

"No," he said, after an infinitely long pause. "I'll check with Bindle and Marmelstein," Remo said. He kept his eyes dead ahead as he drove to the main offices.

"Did you know already of this 'cutting room floor?'" the Master of Sinanju demanded bluntly, eyes slits of suspicion.

"You're the movie expert in the family," Remo said, dodging the question. "I'm just Frank to your Sly Stallone."

Chiun's hazel eyes bored through to Remo's soul. Remo didn't flinch. At long last, the old man dropped back in his seat. "This is the worst day of my life," he lamented, stuffing his hands morosely into the sleeves of his kimono.

"I thought the worst day was when you met me."

"It was. You have been supplanted."

"And it only took thirty years. If you live to be two hundred, maybe I'll get pushed back to three."

"You should live that long," Chiun said.

BINDLE AND MARMELSTEIN were still hiding out behind Bindle's fractured desk when Remo and Chiun burst through the glass doors.

"If that's the limo, bring it around back," Hank Bindle's disembodied voice whispered.

"The only place you're going is out that window."

At the sound of Remo's voice, two pairs of fearful eyes sprang up above the upended desk half. When Bindle and Marmelstein saw Remo and Chiun striding toward them, two heavy tumblers thudded to the thick carpet. The executives scampered to their feet, backing to the wall.

"Mr. Remo, Mr. Chiun. What a pleasant surprise," Marmelstein said nervously.

Each man wore an ugly silk tuxedo. The suits were deep blue with black felt cuffs and cummerbunds. High white collars hugged their necks, a single black button where a bow tie should have been. "It was Quintly Tortilli," Bindle blurted.

Marmelstein wheeled on his partner. Not to be out-stool pigeoned, Bruce added, "We didn't know it was him until yesterday. He did the White House thing entirely on his own. We just hired him to blow up that building in New York."

Bindle kicked his partner viciously in the ankle. "Ow! I mean oh," Marmelstein stammered, hopping in place. "Shouldn't have said that. Edit that last bit out."

Before Remo could open his mouth, the Master of Sinanju bullied his way in front of his pupil. "You have much explaining to do," Chiun challenged.

Bindle's and Marmelstein's eyes grew wide. "We didn't know you were going to be here," Marmelstein whined rapidly. "I swear on my mother's eyes."

"We thought you were gone," Bindle agreed, pleading. "We never would have done it if we knew you were on the lot. We want to make more great movies with you, baby."

Chiun glanced at Remo, his expression one of sour confusion. "What are these imbeciles babbling about?"

"They're the ones who hired Tortilli to blow up the studio," Remo supplied. "With you in it."

Chiun spun to the Taurus cochairs, eyes blazing fire. "Is this true?" he demanded.

"It was his idea," Bindle and Marmelstein both exclaimed in unison. Each was pointing to the other. Their faces grew shocked at the betrayal. "Liar!" they both accused at the same time.

Bindle shoved Marmelstein into the broken desk. Bottles on the floor clanked loudly as the Taurus cochair stumbled through them.

Marmelstein flung a handful of ice from a bucket at his partner. One piece struck Bindle in the face. "I'm blind!" Bindle shrieked. Squinting, he tried to kick Marmelstein. Missing completely, he punted the desk. A toe cracked audibly.

"Ahhh!" Bindle yowled in pain.

Thrilled to have the upper hand, Bruce Marmelstein was about to finish his partner off with a hurled bottle of martini olives when he felt a powerful hand grab him by the throat. The olive jar slipped from his hand as he felt himself being thrown through the air. He landed on the surface of his own, intact desk. With a grunt, Hank Bindle dropped roughly beside him.

When they looked up, they found Remo a few inches away. The Master of Sinanju stood at his elbow. Neither man seemed pleased.

"Tortilli," Remo growled. "Where is he?"

"Finishing location shooting," Bindle offered weakly, his left eye squeezed tightly shut. His broken toe ached.

"I thought location stuff was done weeks ago."

"This is an add-on scene. Quintly didn't like the last boat sequence. We scrapped it for something more exciting."

Remo felt his heart quicken. "The boat sequence was cut?"

"Quintly had a flash of inspiration," Marmelstein offered. "He wrote something new that dovetails with the whole terrorist-White House angle."

"Where is he shooting?" Remo pressed.

"The Burbank Bowl," Bindle replied.

"That's where we were going," Marmelstein supplied. "It's a concert to celebrate soundtrack music."

"Only we were going to show up late, 'cause that stuff gives us both headaches," Bindle ventured.

"The President's at the Burbank Bowl, Little Father," Remo said worriedly to Chiun.

The old Korean had his own problems.

"They have edited me," Chiun moaned. "Me. And to add insult to injury, my own producers attempt to kill me with a boom. Oh, why did I ever think an assassin would be safe in this town?"

Remo returned his attention to Bindle and Marmelstein.

"How does the movie end?" he demanded.

"The President dies." Bindle nodded, trying to sell Remo on the concept. "Great dramatic scene. Lance Wallace gets sworn in on the spot as the next Commander in Chief. Perfect setup for the sequel."

Remo wheeled to Chiun. "We've got to get to the Burbank Bowl," he insisted sharply.

"Gladly," Chiun responded bitterly. "My only wish before I shake the dust of this heathen village from my sandals forever is to mete out justice to the mendacious Quintly Tortilli."

Scrambling, Bindle knelt on the desk. "By justice, you don't mean, by any chance, killing Quintly?"

"I will feed him his own lying heart."

"Heart feeding is bad, Bruce," Bindle said out of the corner of his mouth.

"You can't kill him just yet," Bruce Marmelstein said quickly. "Not till he's finished tonight's filming. As it is, it's already gonna be a bitch getting this puppy in theaters in two weeks."

"But if he does finish tonight, he's guaranteed us 125 million by Memorial Day," Hank Bindle argued hastily. "Even if it tanks afterward, that'll carry us through another hundred million, domestic."

"And even halfway decent word of mouth could push us over three hundred million before foreign, pay cable or video," Marmelstein supplied rapidly. "And a real dead President bumps foreign box office out of the solar system."

"Bottom line, Chiun, baby," Bindle concluded hurriedly. "Presidents come and Presidents go, but you keep turning out dynamite scripts like Die Down IV, and you and Taurus'll be counting Oscar gold for years to come."

Sweating anxiously, the two Taurus cochairs studied the Master of Sinanju's reaction, Bindle with one bloodshot eye closed.

The wizened Asian turned a narrowed eye to his pupil. "Is it possible for a film to survive the deaths of the executives in charge of the project?" he asked.

Remo was already edging toward the door. "Little Father, every time a Hollywood honcho dies, an angel gets his wings," he answered quickly.

Both executives still squatted on Bruce Marmelstein's desk, looks of anxious fear on their tan faces. They seemed oblivious to Remo's words, focused as they were on the Master of Sinanju.