"We can't survive this," Shawn wailed to the gray, mist-filled sky. "How can we have a Quintly Tortilli film without Quintly Tortilli?"
"Everyone else does," pointed out a soundman who worked part-time bagging groceries at a local supermarket.
"They are producing knockoff shit. We had the real Tortilli. A Tortilli original out of Cabbagehead would have gone all the way to March."
"The studio has had a few hits lately."
Shawn waved a dismissive hand. "Flukes. Arthouse hits. We could have had a box-office bonanza here."
He was sitting on a plastic milk crate on the parking-lot set of The Butcher, the Baker and the Candlestick Maker. The blood machines were idle. The cast and crew of locals hired for the production sat glumly on crates around the roped-off area.
The ropes were just for show. In a week of shooting, the only thing that had dropped by the set was a single stray dog. It had wandered away from a pack that stalked the woods around the nearby reservoir. At the moment it was sleeping at Shawn's feet. The filthy reservoir dog snored loudly, unconcerned for Shawn Allen Morris or his studio's plight.
As Shawn sat bemoaning his fate, an engine purred to a stop beyond the string of ropes. When he glanced up, his dispirited gaze alighted on a familiar car. The Cabbagehead executive watched glumly as Remo Williams got out.
The dog at Shawn's feet lifted its nose. After sniffing the air, it laid its head back down to the damp asphalt.
Remo's expression was sour as he crossed to Shawn.
"Where's Tortilli?" Remo asked, glancing around.
Shawn wanted to snort derisively, but the ache beneath his new wrist cast warned him against it. Instead, he settled on a self-pitying sigh.
"In jail," Shawn said morosely from his milkcrate seat.
"Grand theft plot?" Remo frowned, unsure whether or not he should be pleased that Tortilli was even alive.
"No. Something about killing people or something." Shawn waved, uninterested. "I didn't talk to him. And who cares about that now? How am I going to finish this picture? I need a genius that rivals Quintly Tortilli."
Rerno pointed to the sleeping dog. "Give him a beret and megaphone," he suggested. He bit the inside of his cheek.
It was bad enough to have to ask the director for more help; he didn't want to have to spring Tortilli from jail.
Remo was considering leaving Tortilli to take the rap for the murders of Leaf Randolph and his friends when a new engine's roar overwhelmed the parking-lot background noise.
When he turned, he saw a yellow cab speeding quickly across the lot. It hadn't even rocked to a stop behind Remo's rental car before the rear door popped open. A familiar purple leisure suit sprang into view.
"Veni, vidi, vici!" Quintly Tortilli announced grandly.
Whirling to the cab, he flung a fistful of crumpled bills at the driver.
Shawn clambered to his feet, face ecstatic. "Thank God!" he proclaimed. He spun to the cast and crew. "Quintly's back!" he shouted. "Places, everybody! Let's go!"
With grunts and groans, the set began to come alive.
Beaming joyfully, Shawn hurried to meet up with Tortilli as the cab headed back to the street. "Quintly, I didn't think you-"
Tortilli marched past Shawn and straight to Remo.
"It was great!" he enthused. "What a rush! And I owe it all to you. Dead bodies. Blood, heads and brains everywhere. The whole Starsky and Hutch and Baretta jail thing. Man, what a high-flying, hightailing, highfalutin trip!"
He tried to shake Remo's hand. Somehow, it was never where it seemed to be. Tortilli kept clutching air.
"Damn, how do you do that?" the director gushed.
"Let's go, dummy," Remo replied, peeved. Shawn had hurried up behind Tortilli. At Remo's suggestion, he shrieked. The Cabbagehead executive quickly inserted himself between them.
"I thought they said they'd booked you or something," Shawn said through clenched teeth. As he spoke, he leaned toward the set, trying through body language to guide Quintly back to work.
Tortilli didn't budge. "Booked, fingerprinted and stuck in a cell with Otis the freaking town drunk," he enthused. "My lawyers did the whole Clarence Darrow/L.A. Law thing. Bidda-boom, bidda-bing, I'm back on the street. Christ Almighty, how I love the revolving-door prison system."
"That's great," Shawn said, with a total lack of conviction. "See, the thing is, Quintly, it's Tuesday. A lot of our cast skipped school for this..."
"He's leaving," Remo said. Grabbing Tortilli by the arm, he began bouncing the director toward his rental car.
"I am?" Tortilli asked. "Cool!"
"He's not," Shawn begged, running alongside them. "Quintly, you've got a movie to finish here."
"You don't get it, Shawn," the director announced, his balled-fist face red with excitement. "This is the man. I mean, there are men. And there are men who are the man. But this is, like, the man." Beside the rental car now, he turned to Remo. "You are protoman. You are like the first monkey to swim up out of the primordial ooze. I prostate myself at your feet."
"Prostrate," Remo corrected, opening the passenger's-side door. "Prostate is where your head's gonna be if you don't shut up." He tossed the director inside, slamming the door.
As Shawn stomped impotently on the pavement, Remo rounded to the driver's side.
Inside the car, Remo turned to Tortilli. "A-shut up. B-your last lead was a bust. You think you can find another?"
Tortilli was torn by the conflicting commands. His worried eyes darted left and right. "I guess so," he ventured at last. He threw his hands protectively in front of his face. His ferret eyes squinted, awaiting the blow.
None came.
All he heard was the car engine turning over. Tortilli opened one cautious eye. They were driving across the parking lot. The director's shoulders relaxed.
"There were five of them," he enthused, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You knocked off five at one time!"
"Think how easy one would be," Remo cautioned.
Tortilli nodded in understanding.
He still had one more question. Since Remo seemed to be in a more agreeable mood than normal, he decided to risk it.
"How long you gonna leave Shawn up there?" he asked.
He nodded to the hood. Shawn Allen Morris lay plastered to the wet surface, his legs dangling out over the grille.
"Please, Quintly!" Shawn's muffled voice shouted.
Remo's response was nonverbal.
At the supermarket entrance, Remo cut the wheel sharply. Shawn flew off the hood into a cluster of shopping carts.
Over the rattle of the carts, Quintly Tortilli swore he heard the sound of crunching bones. Just like in the movies.
The rented car tore off down the street.
Chapter 9
"I don't think we can last much longer under these conditions," the assistant director pleaded. "He's got us all walking on eggshells. He screams at us. Bullies us. He's never happy with anything I'm doing. I've never been on a set where the tension level was this high. And I spent six months on the Rosie O'Donnell Show."
Arlen Duggal was in the Taurus Studios office of Bindle and Marmelstein. The studio cochairs sat behind a gleaming pair of matching stainless-steel desks.
"Are you sure this isn't just a personality conflict?" Bruce Marmelstein asked calmly.
The assistant director shook his head frantically. "When I told him I wanted to break for the day yesterday, he threatened to eviscerate me if I didn't get back to work," Arlen said pleadingly.
"That doesn't sound so bad," Hank Bindle suggested.
"Oh, no? I looked it up. It means 'disembowel.' He's a maniac. He's completely out of control. You've got to do something."