Warren Murphy: The Final Reel

Bindle and Marmelstein felt the sticky tape residue tug at the soles of their matching Saucony Hurricane running shoes as they crossed the antiseptic gray carpeting. They plopped down behind their respective desks.

Neither man looked at the other.

In spite of the heavy soundproofing they'd had installed when Nishitsu had put them in charge of the once profitable studio, both of them were able to hear a low, steady rumbling from beyond the sealed window behind them.

Something within the room rattled in response to the earthshaking movement outside. It was not the posters, whose frames had been permanently secured to the walls with solid-gold screws at great cost to the Nishitsu Corporation.

They listened for the source of the noise, trying to hone in on whatever was causing the persistent glassy rattle. After a moment Bruce Marmelstein noted with a smirk that it came from his partner's desk. Neither the look nor the location of the rattle sat well with Hank Bindle.

Irritated that his should be the only piece of furniture rattling, Bindle pressed a button on his desk. Half of the room-length blind-the half behind Hank Bindle-slowly powered open, revealing a wide studio lot. Not to be outdone, Marmelstein pressed an identical button on his own desk. His half of the blind opened, as well. Swiveling on chrome bases, the men spun their chairs around simultaneously.

The lot below them was bustling with activity. Two sides were hemmed in by large studio buildings. The third consisted of the office complex in which Bindle and Marmelstein now sat. The fourth opened out into another wide lot, which, in turn, ended at a distant white wall.

Every inch of space in the first lot seemed to be filled with all manner of military equipment. There were antiaircraft guns on flatbed trucks. Military transport vehicles. Jeeps, trucks and Land Rovers.

In between the vehicles milled men with rifles and machine guns. They were dressed in flowing white robes. Loose-fitting mantles covered their heads and hung down across their shoulders. Many of the men wore headdresses of cordlike material around their mantles. There were hundreds of men dressed in this manner all around the first lot.

A cloud of dust rose from the second, more distant lot. Through the smoky film a column of tanks could be seen involved in what appeared to be some sort of military maneuvers near the white wall. The relentless ground-shaking of these metal behemoths was obviously responsible for Hank Bindle's rattling desk.

Bindle and Marmelstein watched the activity through the one-way glass of their huge office window. Cold air from the superchilled room frosted the edges of the glass. At long last one of them spoke.

"I'm a little troubled by this whole war-movie concept," Hank Bindle said. It was the first complete sentence he had spoken to his partner since the Nishitsu Pullout.

"Bad box office," Bruce Marmelstein echoed.

"Forget that Saving Private Ryan fluke. Hell, I could have sold tickets to my scrotum tuck with a cast like that." His tan face was drawn into a serious expression. Not so serious that it might cause wrinkles. He wasn't due for a peel for another six months and he wanted to minimize the damage between now and then.

"We could come up with an angle," Bindle ventured to his partner.

"You mean like a Schindler's List for the nineties?" Marmelstein suggested.

"Schindler's was nineties," Bindle sighed. "Better yet. Strike while the iron's hot. How about Schindler's List II?"

"No, I don't think Spielberg will go for it."

"Damn," Marmelstein muttered. A spark of inspiration suddenly struck. "Did Schindler write any more lists?"

"What, you mean like Schindler's Other List?" Bindle said, taking up the thread.

"Posolutely," Bindle enthused. "Maybe no one's bought up the rights yet." He stabbed at his intercom. "Ian, get me Schindler on the phone."

"Schindler, Mr. Bindle?" the effeminate voice of their young secretary droned.

"You know, the guy with all the lists. Tell him we'll give him whatever he wants not to sign with Amblin for the sequel."

"Or Dreamworks," Marmelstein cut in on his line.

"Just set up a meeting," Bindle ordered, shooting an annoyed look at his partner. He released the intercom. "Now, you realize before we even get started, someone's going to have to take the fall when we hose this list guy," he said pensively. He wheeled in his chair. "How important is Ian to you?" Bindle asked Marmelstein.

"He knows where a lot of the bodies are buried," Marmelstein reminded him. "Especially the you-know-what with the you-know-whats."

"What?" Bindle asked, totally confused. "Iratedpay ideotapevays," Marmelstein replied in his best pig Latin.

"Damn. Oh, well, once we get Schindler in here we'll have to scapegoat someone else." He spun back to his desk, stabbing his intercom. "Ian, find us a scapegoat from the mailroom," he announced.

"Already done," the secretary sang.

Bindle was just smiling a triumphant set of perfect white caps at his partner when Ian cut in again. "And Mr. Koala is here."

Bindle's smile vanished. At the same time the office doors pushed open. A dark-skinned man in an ill-fitting business suit and a beard that looked as if it had lost a fight with a rabid raccoon stepped into the chilly room.

Bindle and Marmelstein both stood to greet Assola al Khobar.

The terrorist was followed into the room by Ian. The secretary minced efficiently in his wake, carrying with him a chrome office chair. He breezed over, placing it neatly in the hot spot between Bindle's and Marmelstein's desks. All the time he spoke on his wireless phone.

"What do you mean Israel?" Ian demanded, his sibilants spattering the slender headset with tiny bubbles of spit. He sighed in exasperation. "Well, get me Israel, then," he said, rolling his eyes. Spinning balletlike, he marched back out the gleaming glass doors.

Al Khobar raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Jewish state. He sat down in the chair before Bindle and Marmelstein.

"There is still a problem at the harbor," al Khobar said without preamble once they were alone. "Your customs will not give clearance to the two cargo ships we discussed this morning."

Bindle and Marmelstein straightened uncomfortably in their chairs. They looked like interpretive dancers executing a strange choreographed routine. "Yes, about that..." Marmelstein hedged.

"I don't know if you're tight with the sultan," Bindle interjected.

"And if you are, that's just fine," Marmelstein added.

"Fine. It's better. Perfect." Bindle nodded.

"But if you've-you know-got his ear or anything, you might want to tell him that this war-movie thing..." He tipped his head pensively, like a doctor trying to politely advise a patient to shed a few pounds. "Well, if he's basing success on that little World War II flick from last summer, he should know it might not be the best idea going."

"War movies are duds," Bindle agreed rapidly.

"Box-office poison," Marmelstein quickly agreed with the agreement.

"Zero appeal. We're talking first-weekend grosses under ten million."

"Probably under five."

"Worse. Under one."

Bindle and Marmelstein looked at each other. They shook visibly at the horrible prospect. It had happened in Hollywood many times before. A lot of times to Bindle and Marmelstein productions.

"It is to be a war," al Khobar said flatly. "The one who pays your salaries insists."

"On the other hand war movies are signaling a comeback," Bindle said, in a change of gears so sudden his cerebellum nearly smoked. "Look at The Thin Red Line."

"Light on box office, heavy on Oscars," Marmelstein echoed. "Take Patton."

"Good Morning, Vietnam, " Bindle bubbled.

"Platoon."

"For one," Bindle said happily.