Bruce Marmelstein was leaning back in his swivel chair, salon-tanned hands steepled beneath the nose he'd ordered from his plastic surgeon's summer catalog.
"Bottom line," Marmelstein said. "This production was twenty-three days behind schedule before he got here. He's only been here forty-eight hours and we're already through twelve of those lost days. Even at this rate, Assassin's Loves will be finished just barely on schedule."
"Can't we change the working title?" Bindle asked, his face pinched in displeasure. "That was just to cover Lance during location shooting. I mean, Assassin's Loves? Pee-yew."
"It's already on the crew jackets, hats and script binders," Marmelstein said. "Belt-tightening time. Remember?"
"Have you seen what we've shot in the past two days?" the assistant director begged, steering them back to the topic at hand. "It's crap."
"Editing will punch it up," Hank Bindle assured him. "We'll fill it with digital fluff. Hell, we'll even see if we can get John Williams to score it."
"We can't afford John Williams," Marmelstein cautioned.
"Oh. How about Danny Elfman?"
"Think second-string."
Bindle was horror-struck. "Not Henry Mancini!" he gasped.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Marmelstein frowned.
"Oh, thank God," Bindle replied, clutching his chest in relief. "We'd be the laughingstock of the industry. In the first testosterone-injected blockbuster of the summer, the hero doesn't blow up a helicopter or bang a broad to 'Moon River.' Course the fags might like that. Maybe for homo crossover appeal we could get Celine Dion to do a 'Moon River' cover for the banging scene."
"Probably too much, but I'll call her people," Marmelstein said.
Nodding, Bindle leaned back in his chair.
"We still have a problem on the set," the assistant director interjected. Arlen was nearly crying now as he stood, shifting uncomfortably before their desks.
"Are you still here?" Bindle asked, frowning. "I thought we'd settled this."
"We had," Marmelstein stressed. "The picture was hopelessly behind schedule. Now it's only behind. In two days it won't even be that anymore. Problem solved."
"It wasn't my fault we were behind," the assistant director whined.
Hank Bindle tapped a finger on his desk. "Look, who's directing this picture?" he asked.
"I wasn't contracted to," the A.D. argued.
"That's not the point."
"But he put two union reps through a wall today," Arlen pleaded, his tone desperate. "Through a freaking wall."
"They were insolent louts."
The unexpected reply didn't come from either Hank Bindle or Bruce Marmelstein. The singsongy voice came from the direction of the office doors. Arlen jumped a foot in the air. He wheeled in time to see the big office doors swing quietly shut. The Master of Sinanju was padding silently across the carpet.
Chiun stopped next to the panicked assistant director.
"O Magnificent Oneness," the A.D. said, terror in his quavering voice. "I thought you were at the commissary."
"They did not have proper rice," Chiun said, his eyes slivers of suspicion. "Why are you not at work?"
"I...it...I-I was just reporting on our progress."
Hank Bindle smiled. "Arlen was telling us how pleased he was with your managerial skills, Mr. Chiun."
"Yes," Bruce Marmelstein agreed, an overly white grin spreading across his deeply tanned face. "He's very impressed. Says you're a real motivator."
Heavy lids parted a fraction, revealing questioning hazel orbs. "Is this true?" Chiun asked the A.D.
The man glanced desperately at Bindle and Marmelstein, then back to the old Korean. "I...that is...yes. Yes." He nodded emphatically.
A sad smile cracked through the harsh leathery veneer of the Master of Sinanju. "I am deeply touched," he intoned. "But alas, your words of praise cannot be true."
"Of course they are," Arlen said, sensing an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the terrifying old man. He forced warm enthusiasm into his voice.
"No, no," Chiun said, raising a hand to ward off further undeserved approval. "For if this were the case, would you not be on the set right now?"
Chiun's thin smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a granite-cold glare. His protesting hand was still raised. Arlen's sick eyes traced the contours of the old man's daggerlike fingernails.
The assistant director gulped audibly. "I, um...better get, um... Look!" Pointing out the big office window, he turned and ran from the room.
As the door swung shut, a placid expression settled on the weathered creases of the Master of Sinanju's face.
"Damn, if the movie business doesn't fit you like a glove, Mr. Chiun," Marmelstein said, genuinely impressed at the way the old Korean had handled the assistant director. "Why, the look of pure terror you just put in that man's eyes? It's like Jack Warner's come back from that big projection room in the sky." His own eyes were misting.
"You've really given the production a kick in the pants," Bindle agreed enthusiastically.
"These people lacked discipline," said Chiun. "Their leader did not inspire order."
"Leader," Bindle snorted sarcastically. "Don't even get me started on that one."
Chiun raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing," Marmelstein shook his head. "Sore subject. Anyway, your presence here is really working out great. We're tearing through script pages like a runaway train."
As usual, Chiun didn't know what the executive was saying. "This is good?" he asked.
"Good? It's great! It means we'll make our May premiere date after all, which means we get a jump on the rest of the summer competition, which means we get a bigger chunk of the summer box office, which means those gross profit points you negotiated are worth even more."
This the Master of Sinanju understood. "I love the movie business," he enthused.
"And it loves you, baby," Hank Bindle said warmly. He rose from his desk, coming around to the tiny Asian. Bruce Marmelstein came behind him.
Bindle put his arm around Chiun's bony shoulder. Such a move of familiarity would ordinarily cost someone at least one arm, if not his life. But Chiun felt such love in the room that he didn't object to the touch. Nor did he protest as Bindle and Marmelstein began to lead him from the office.
"You're an asset this town can really use," Bindle said. "I can see a long relationship between the three of us. You as writer and set inspiration, us as resident executive geniuses. The sky is the limit. Anything you want, you just ask your old pal Hank Bindle."
"Or Bruce Marmelstein," Bruce Marmelstein offered as he pushed the door open. They entered the lobby.
"Since you mention it, I had come here to suggest higher quality rice at the eating place of the commissar," Chiun said.
"Huh?" Marmelstein asked.
"Commissary," Bindle explained to his partner.
"Japonica rice. And fish," Chiun said. "Perhaps some duck. Duck is always nice."
"Whatever you say." Bindle nodded.
"We'll get right on it," Marmelstein agreed.
"If I think of anything else, I will tell you."
"We're anxious for your input," Marmelstein enthused.
They ushered Chiun onto the elevator. After the doors had closed on the Master of Sinanju, the two of them let out a single relieved sigh. They returned to their office, plopping down behind their huge executive desks.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Hank Bindle asked once they'd settled in. He was staring at the glass office doors.
Marmelstein nodded. "That old fart's sold us a bill of goods," he said. "This thing is a bomb waiting to go off."
"Why didn't we see it before?" Bindle wailed. "We wasted our money on the rights. I mean, come on. An honest cop fighting the system alone? Snore, snore, snore."
"We should have seen it wasn't workable."
"Workable? We'll be lucky if we're not severanced off with a big fat check and a pile of stock."