In the privacy of his trailer, Tortilli smiled at the thought. He cast a final critical eye over his outfit. He didn't really like the tie. It was a little too yellow. Orange would be better.
Pulling off the bow tie, he searched through his wardrobe for the proper tie. After knotting it around his neck, he went back to the mirror. And frowned. Still didn't look right.
"What should one wear to a presidential assassination?" he mused aloud as he tipped his head to one side.
He finally decided to go tieless. Pulling off the bow tie, he unbuttoned his shirt down to his cummerbund.
"Perfect," he proclaimed.
Tossing the orange tie onto a chair, Quintly Tortilli marched from his trailer. He closed the door with such violence, his rack of polyester suits swayed in the breeze.
The orange bow tie slipped silently to the floor.
Chapter 30
The phone on Remo's plane didn't start working until they were about to land at LAX.
"It's about damn time," Remo said angrily when Harold Smith finally picked up. "Jann Revolta's signed to do three more movies since we left freaking Washington."
"Remo? What is wrong?"
"I've been trying to call you all the way from D.C.," he complained. "I'm about two seconds away from landing in California and the bloody phone just started working."
Smith didn't seem surprised. "That was a security precaution for the President."
"What does he have to do with this?" Remo said sourly.
"He is attending a scheduled fund-raising event at the Burbank Bowl tonight. After the events in Washington, he was only too eager to get out of the city. However, due to concerns for his safety, Air Force planes doused radio signals in a wide corridor for the duration of his trip. You must have been following in his wake."
"When does this guy ever find time to run the country between fund-raisers?" Remo grumbled. "Anyway, I've got news."
"As have I," Smith said excitedly.
"Me first. Quintly Tortilli's our guy. He's the one making the movie all this bullshit has been based on."
"As I suspected," the CURE director said. "Since we last spoke, I returned to the tangled finances of the studio in Seattle. Tortilli was a producer on the three independent films made successful by the original murders."
"How come you didn't find that out before?"
"As I said, the financial records are complex. One of the producers was an Allen Smithee. Further digging revealed that this was a corporation name owned by none other than Quintly Tortilli. It is in this name that he is also a Cabbagehead Productions backer."
"Well he's definitely branched out from the indies, Smitty," Remo said. His hand rested on Chiun's screenplay. "I've got his blockbuster shooting script right here. It's got the New York bombing and the White House takeover. Barely mentions the trouble in Hollywood that it's supposedly based on."
"You actually have his script?" Smith pressed. "I was not able to find it in the Taurus computer system."
"Yeah, well, they left it lying around somewhere," Remo said vaguely. "Anyway, I've got his grand finale. He plans on swiping a Navy boat from the Long Beach shipyard. If he sticks to the script, we should be able to head it off."
Smith paused. "Remo, the Long Beach naval facility was closed several years ago. I believe it has been turned over to commercial development. If the Navy has left any vessels there, they are no doubt worthless scrap."
"All I know is what I read, Smitty," Remo insisted. "According to this, that's where he's going next."
"I will arrange to have authorities converge on the area," Smith said reluctantly. The sound of rapid typing filtered through the phone.
"I'll take care of Tortilli," Remo said. "And, Smitty?"
"Yes?"
"If they've built a mall at Long Beach like they've done on every other strip of land that used to be a military base in this country, you might want to evacuate the Gap," Remo suggested, hanging up the phone.
WHEN REMO ARRIVED at Taurus Studios, he found the Master of Sinanju striding purposefully up the sidewalk. The old Korean's weathered face was pinched into furious lines.
"Need a lift?" Remo called out the car window. Chiun's eggshell head lifted, shaken from his burdensome thoughts. He hurried over to Remo's rental car.
"I am cursed with too trusting a soul," the Master of Sinanju intoned as he slipped into the front seat. His squeaky voice toyed with the fringes of indignant rage.
"This ain't the town for one," Remo agreed. "What happened?"
"I have just learned the meaning of 'cutting room floor,'" Chiun snapped as they drove up the main Taurus avenue. Dusk was falling. "It is an evil practice wherein the innocent are duped into believing their angelic countenances will appear on movie screens around the world, only to have those precious inches of film snipped and discarded by the ugly and duplicitous."
Beneath the anger was injury. Chiun had been hurt by the lie. Remo's sympathetic smile was genuine.
"I'm sorry, Little Father."
Chiun pressed the back of one bony hand to his parchment forehead. "How will I ever overcome this embarrassment?" he lamented. "I have already told all my friends."
"What friends?" Remo asked.
"I told you," Chiun challenged. Remo's face warmed.
"Oh, do not get maudlin," the Master of Sinanju snapped, noting the pleased expression on his pupil's face. "I merely mean that you will not miss an opportunity to lord this shame over me, jealous as you are."
"For the last time, I am not jealous," Remo said, exasperated. "And you should look on the bright side. At least you got the chance to think you were going to be in a movie. A lot of people don't get that."
"A starving man is not sated by the mere promise of food," Chiun replied. "The thirst of a man dying in the desert is not slaked by the mere mention of water."
"You're being a little melodramatic, don't you think?" Remo said. "Besides, maybe it's all for the best. Smith would have stroked out the minute he heard you were in a movie."
"Pah. Smith," Chiun sniffed. "He has hidden my light under his demented bushel basket far too long."
"Smitty's okay," Remo disagreed. He was thinking of the past few days. Smith had become human to Remo in a way he did not like. "It's not his fault they cut you out. That sort of thing happens all the time." He regretted saying it the instant it passed his lips. "I think- I mean, I assume. I guess. Probably." He abruptly changed the subject. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where Tortilli is?"
Chiun didn't reply right away. He was staring at his pupil's guilty silhouette.
"No," he said, after an infinitely long pause. "I'll check with Bindle and Marmelstein," Remo said. He kept his eyes dead ahead as he drove to the main offices.
"Did you know already of this 'cutting room floor?'" the Master of Sinanju demanded bluntly, eyes slits of suspicion.
"You're the movie expert in the family," Remo said, dodging the question. "I'm just Frank to your Sly Stallone."
Chiun's hazel eyes bored through to Remo's soul. Remo didn't flinch. At long last, the old man dropped back in his seat. "This is the worst day of my life," he lamented, stuffing his hands morosely into the sleeves of his kimono.
"I thought the worst day was when you met me."
"It was. You have been supplanted."
"And it only took thirty years. If you live to be two hundred, maybe I'll get pushed back to three."
"You should live that long," Chiun said.
BINDLE AND MARMELSTEIN were still hiding out behind Bindle's fractured desk when Remo and Chiun burst through the glass doors.
"If that's the limo, bring it around back," Hank Bindle's disembodied voice whispered.
"The only place you're going is out that window."
At the sound of Remo's voice, two pairs of fearful eyes sprang up above the upended desk half. When Bindle and Marmelstein saw Remo and Chiun striding toward them, two heavy tumblers thudded to the thick carpet. The executives scampered to their feet, backing to the wall.