The soundstage seemed big and drafty. Like another world. In spite of the soundproofing, Remo could hear the occasional lone siren beyond the nearby wall. Most had already found their way to the New York set.
Remo heard without hearing. His thoughts were on Smith.
The President was a man who had slid to the top on a track greased with lies and false smiles. He couldn't begin to understand the sacrifices someone like Smith had made.
Although the possibility for friction had been there from the start, Smith's love of country had always superseded any personal distaste. He had worked with the nation's Chief Executive for one and a half terms. And now, with the light of day visible at the end of the dark tunnel, the President had finally turned his destructive sights on CURE.
"Just hunker down, Smitty," Remo muttered to the empty hangar. "One more year and he's history."
Unknown to Remo, forces were conspiring at that moment to reduce the President's second term by a quarter.
Chapter 18
Reginald Hardwin was a brilliant actor who, for one reason or another, had never quite made it.
That he was an acting genius was without doubt. All anyone had to do was ask him. He was on a level so far above the rest of the noisome rabble, as he called his peers, that he would need a telescope to properly look down on them. If they were stars twinkling in the heavens of celebrity, his talent as a thespian was the midday sun.
But fate had conspired against poor Reginald Hardwin.
He had just missed being Richard Burton. Too young.
He was almost Anthony Hopkins. Too sober.
He should have been Jeremy Irons. Too old.
For twenty years, he watched the stars of others rise higher and higher in the heavens while he toiled anonymously in repertory theaters around America. He was Prospero in Connecticut, Mercutio in San Francisco and Falstaff in Miami. His Lear was the finest ever seen in Des Moines.
Even with an impressive list of credits "on the boards," Hardwin had never snatched that elusive gold ring of acting: movie stardom.
Of course, early in his career he had poohpoohed the entire concept of film acting. That sort of thing might be fine for the likes of Olivier and Gielgud, but he was a real actor. His first love was the stage. Anything else smacked of cheap commercialism.
Hardwin held this conceit for as long as it took him to realize that Hollywood not only was not beating down his door, it didn't even know where his door was.
He quickly changed his game plan.
Hollywood might not have sought him out, but that only meant they hadn't taken the time to pull their noses out of their plebeian scripts long enough to see what a real actor was. He decided that he would go on casting calls just for the fun of it, rejecting on principle any and all offers that came his way.
Reginald was certain that there would be offers. He was certain of this fact during the months after demeaning months he spent traipsing from one studio to another meeting with agents, directors and producers.
The realization that he'd been wrong to believe so wholeheartedly in the certainty of his eventual offers finally sank in one cool California evening when he returned home from yet another round of casting calls.
His mailbox was empty. Again.
Okay, technically it wasn't empty. Actually, it was only clear of film offers. It was full of other things. Like bills from the telephone company, the gas company, the electric company, his Strasberg Method class-what was he thinking?-and about a dozen other invoices.
That night, sitting on the stoop of his Rosecrans Avenue apartment in the Compton section of L.A., the sounds of revving car engines and the gunshots of gang warfare rising softly to his ears, Reginald Hardwin had a revelation.
He had been wrong. Desperately so.
Not about his basic thesis, mind you. He was still possibly the greatest actor who had ever lived-certainly the greatest living actor-but something else occurred to him that night. The well had been poisoned by bad actors.
He was missing out on acting jobs because all of the famous actors working in the business were so inferior to him that no one knew any longer what a good actor was.
By that time, three years had come and gone since Reginald had first started going on auditions. In that time, the happy lark that had marked the beginning of his search for film work had evolved into a much more serious quest for employment. But that night the seriousness of Hardwin's search reached epic proportions.
He started going on more auditions. Every single one he heard of. Morning, noon or night. It didn't matter. He was like a man obsessed.
There was nothing beneath his dignity. Once, he even donned a dress and wig, hoping that it would get him a job in a panty hose commercial. After offering certain "favors" to the man casting the ad in question, the only thing his zeal got him was an appearance before a local judge.
Even with such setbacks, his new blitzkrieg did net him a few jobs over the years. He got work doing voice-overs for radio spots. He was an apple in a men's underwear ad. He even worked with Lord Larry himself in Clash of the Titans, but was later cut out of the final print. Hardwin suspected that it was fear on Olivier's part. The old fraud didn't want to be upstaged by a much more talented younger actor.
But the thing Reginald Hardwin truly wanted-huge success in the motion-picture industry with the accompanying chance to thumb his nose at that success-always eluded him.
Until the call.
It came late in his career. Reginald Hardwin was in his mid-forties-although his birth certificate back in Norwich, England, would have disputed that claim by more than a decade.
The caller had stated the obvious. That Hardwin was a genius whose talents had been squandered over the years.
"I don't even know who you are, yet you are the most perceptive individual I have ever met," Reginald Hardwin told the anonymous caller.
"It must be awful to be so great and have no one recognize that greatness," the caller said.
"You have no idea," Hardwin replied.
"How would you like recognition? How would you like everyone everywhere to know your name? To never forget who you are?"
"I would rather have cash," Hardwin replied. To his surprise, he had gotten it. Five million dollars arrived by courier that afternoon. Cash. Since he was between agents at the time, Reginald didn't have to parcel out an automatic fifteen percent. And since it was in cash, he didn't have to bother with the pesky bloodsuckers of the Internal Revenue Service. Happily, he didn't have to part with one red cent.
"You got the money," the voice of the stranger stated in his subsequent phone call.
"I did," Hardwin had replied. He was trying to remain blase. As if five million dollars were nothing to him.
"All five million?"
It was an odd question to ask. "Yes," Hardwin admitted.
The caller's voice seemed to soften. "I need you to do a little something for me."
It was the way he said it. Reginald Hardwin stiffened. "I won't do anything illegal," he sniffed.
"In that case, give me my money back."
The thought horrified Reginald Hardwin. "I will not," he said. Thinking quickly, he added in a scheming tone, "Besides, I never have to admit you sent me one nickel. It was not a check, remember. There is no record. I'm afraid you're out of luck, poor boy."
"You signed for the money, Reggie," the caller said. "That alone is proof enough to the IRS. You lose half right off the top to them. Then the Feds will probably want to know where the money came from. With that much at once and no work to show for it, their first thought will be drugs. On top of all that, I have you on tape just now admitting that you accepted it. That might not be admissible evidence, but a judge could take it into consideration. Now, knowing all this, I think that you'll want to return the money to me if I ask for it. If only to keep yourself out of trouble."