Warren Murphy: Fade to Black

"Maybe a little second-unit stuff," Bindle cautioned.

Marmelstein turned to his partner. "This late? Did the A.D. tell you that?"

"This morning."

"That's gonna cut into time and production costs."

"Not my department," Hank Bindle said with indifference.

The Master of Sinanju wasn't listening to their insane prattle. The two of them talked incessantly without ever saying anything. After a trip to the men's room, they could sometimes blabber for hours nonstop. At least until the sniffling wore off.

"Two weeks," Chiun trilled. The very air around him seemed alive with joy. "Then it is nearly complete."

Neither Bindle nor Marmelstein disputed the assertion.

Chiun's shoulders shuddered visibly as he considered the implications of completed location work. His dream was that much closer to fruition.

He was a wizened figure who appeared to be as old as time itself. Anyone meeting him for the first time invariably assumed him to be nothing more than a frail old man. Bindle and Marmelstein knew better, which was why the cochairs of Taurus Studios were willing to take time out of their schedules to give a personal tour to the lowly screenwriter.

"The squad room," Hank Bindle pronounced. He swept his hand to the left.

The interior of a New York police precinct had been reproduced in meticulous detail. All that was missing was the ceiling and the side wall through which they now looked.

Chiun's radiant face beamed pure joy. "It is as if my words have come to life," he enthused, hazel eyes tearing.

"Chiun, baby, didn't you know? We're in the business of making magic," Bruce Marmelstein confided.

The three men walked onto the set. Paper-strewn desks were arranged haphazardly around the room. Behind the desks sat actors dressed in the familiar blue of the New York City Police Department.

Chiun frowned as they walked between a pair of desks. The two men nearest him seemed bored. They stared blankly into space. The phones atop their desks were silent.

The old Korean stopped so abruptly Bindle and Marmelstein almost plowed into him. The Master of Sinanju appraised the two men a moment before turning back to the studio cochairs, his wizened face perturbed.

"I do not believe these two are constables," he intoned.

"Constables?" Marmelstein whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Cops," explained Bindle, sotto voce.

"Oh," Marmelstein said aloud. "Well, that's 'cause they're not contribbles. They're just actors."

"Actors?" Bindle scoffed. "Not even. They're just extras. Walking props."

Chiun turned back to the nearest man. The uniformed extra had been drawn from his boredom by the conversation. He looked up to find the three men hovering above his desk. He seemed uncomfortable at the attention.

"I-I am Juilliard-trained," the man offered, knowing he had been insulted but not wishing to upset the studio heads.

"Give me your diploma," Bindle snorted. "I have to go to the can." He snorted loudly, glancing to his partner for support. Marmelstein choked at Bindle's wit.

The Master of Sinanju ignored the idiots. He tipped his head to one side, as if listening for something. After a moment, he reached a single long finger toward the actor. His nail-like a sharpened talon-pressed into the muscled shoulder of the man.

The flesh beneath the uniform was warm. Frowning, Chiun spun from the confused young man.

"This is not a prop," Chiun said. "It lives."

"Barely," Marmelstein mocked. "Uncredited, nonspeaking, union-scale drone. He might as well have a tattoo on his head saying, 'Hi, I'm the least important thing in this picture. Ignore me.'"

The young actor seemed crushed by the harsh assessment.

"It is being compensated for its time here?" the Master of Sinanju demanded. "Compen-whazzat?" Marmelstein asked Bindle. This time Hank was at a loss, too. Most four-syllable words that weren't the names of prescription drugs were beyond him.

"Paid," the seated actor supplied.

"Ohhh," Bindle and Marmelstein nodded in unison.

"Of course it's being paid," Manmelstein continued. "The union would have all our asses on a silver platter if we didn't pay the scene fillers."

Chiun crossed his arms over his tiny chest. "If it receives remuneration, why is it indolent?"

"Union-mandated break," Bindle explained. The young man was growing more and more perturbed as the conversation went on. With his acting skills, it was bad enough accepting a nonspeaking role to begin with. But to be continually referred to as little more than a chair or a mop was too much.

"Excuse me, sirs," the actor sniffed haughtily, "but I am a human being, not an 'it.'"

Sitting at his desk, arms crossed, face a mask of self-righteous anger, the young man almost dared the three of them to dispute him. He expected an argument. He expected more verbal abuse. He expected to be fired on the spot. He did not, however, expect what happened next.

The hand flashed out faster than any of their eyes could follow. Five bony fingers smacked with an audible crack into the back of the actor's head. The man's teeth came alive. They clattered like rattling dice inside his mouth. A filling in one molar popped out from the vibrations. And with that wash of sudden, blinding pain, all thoughts of self-righteous actor's anger died a Method death.

The Master of Sinanju wasn't even looking at the man he had just struck. It was as if the actor didn't exist.

"This brotherhood you speak of," Chiun said to the Taurus cochairs, "who are they that they would dare meddle in my wondrous production?"

Bindle and Marmelstein frowned in unison. "He means union," the seated actor offered timidly. Fingers and tongue searched his mouth for his AWOL filling.

"Oh, the union. Everything's union in this town," Bruce Marmelstein explained. "Bastards tell us what to do and what to pay everybody. Hell, they practically time the shitting schedule." His brow furrowed, genuinely confused. "But you must have joined the screenwriters' union."

"Ixnay, ixntay, " Bindle whispered to his partner.

"Ah, this is familiar to me." Chiun nodded, remembering now an early conversation he'd had with Hank Bindle about his union membership.

"Mr. Chiun doesn't believe in unions, Bruce," Bindle whispered.

"Of course not," Chiun sniffed. "A Master of Sinanju does not pay dues. He accepts tribute."

"I admire your integrity." Hank Bindle nodded.

"In-gritty what?" Marmelstein asked his partner. The definition of the unfamiliar word was never explained to the Taurus financial expert. Kimono swirling, the Master of Sinanju spun away from the two executives.

"You!" Chiun announced, aiming an imperious finger at the man he'd just assaulted. "Resume your work! "

The Juilliard graduate wasn't sure exactly what was expected of him. But his skull was still reverberating from the blow Chiun had struck. Flinging his filling to the floor, he grabbed up the prop phone from his desk. His weak smile sought approval.

But Chiun was no longer there. The old Korean had already whirled on to the next extra.

"Return to your duties, player!"

When the confused young actor hesitated, the Master of Sinanju's hand found a cluster of nerves at the small of his back. To the extra, it felt as if someone had poured boiling acid down his spine. Screaming, the man leaped obediently for his own desk.

The commotion brought the attention of everyone on the set. Chiun stormed into their midst.

"Hark, unimportant playactors!" he intoned to the gathered extras. "You are charged with the awesome task of breathing life into a story written by me! A more glorious duty you will never have in your pitiful lives of make-believe. Therefore, you will allow this joy and honor to sustain you, breakless, throughout the duration of filming."