"Mr. Remo, Mr. Chiun. What a pleasant surprise," Marmelstein said nervously.
Each man wore an ugly silk tuxedo. The suits were deep blue with black felt cuffs and cummerbunds. High white collars hugged their necks, a single black button where a bow tie should have been. "It was Quintly Tortilli," Bindle blurted.
Marmelstein wheeled on his partner. Not to be out-stool pigeoned, Bruce added, "We didn't know it was him until yesterday. He did the White House thing entirely on his own. We just hired him to blow up that building in New York."
Bindle kicked his partner viciously in the ankle. "Ow! I mean oh," Marmelstein stammered, hopping in place. "Shouldn't have said that. Edit that last bit out."
Before Remo could open his mouth, the Master of Sinanju bullied his way in front of his pupil. "You have much explaining to do," Chiun challenged.
Bindle's and Marmelstein's eyes grew wide. "We didn't know you were going to be here," Marmelstein whined rapidly. "I swear on my mother's eyes."
"We thought you were gone," Bindle agreed, pleading. "We never would have done it if we knew you were on the lot. We want to make more great movies with you, baby."
Chiun glanced at Remo, his expression one of sour confusion. "What are these imbeciles babbling about?"
"They're the ones who hired Tortilli to blow up the studio," Remo supplied. "With you in it."
Chiun spun to the Taurus cochairs, eyes blazing fire. "Is this true?" he demanded.
"It was his idea," Bindle and Marmelstein both exclaimed in unison. Each was pointing to the other. Their faces grew shocked at the betrayal. "Liar!" they both accused at the same time.
Bindle shoved Marmelstein into the broken desk. Bottles on the floor clanked loudly as the Taurus cochair stumbled through them.
Marmelstein flung a handful of ice from a bucket at his partner. One piece struck Bindle in the face. "I'm blind!" Bindle shrieked. Squinting, he tried to kick Marmelstein. Missing completely, he punted the desk. A toe cracked audibly.
"Ahhh!" Bindle yowled in pain.
Thrilled to have the upper hand, Bruce Marmelstein was about to finish his partner off with a hurled bottle of martini olives when he felt a powerful hand grab him by the throat. The olive jar slipped from his hand as he felt himself being thrown through the air. He landed on the surface of his own, intact desk. With a grunt, Hank Bindle dropped roughly beside him.
When they looked up, they found Remo a few inches away. The Master of Sinanju stood at his elbow. Neither man seemed pleased.
"Tortilli," Remo growled. "Where is he?"
"Finishing location shooting," Bindle offered weakly, his left eye squeezed tightly shut. His broken toe ached.
"I thought location stuff was done weeks ago."
"This is an add-on scene. Quintly didn't like the last boat sequence. We scrapped it for something more exciting."
Remo felt his heart quicken. "The boat sequence was cut?"
"Quintly had a flash of inspiration," Marmelstein offered. "He wrote something new that dovetails with the whole terrorist-White House angle."
"Where is he shooting?" Remo pressed.
"The Burbank Bowl," Bindle replied.
"That's where we were going," Marmelstein supplied. "It's a concert to celebrate soundtrack music."
"Only we were going to show up late, 'cause that stuff gives us both headaches," Bindle ventured.
"The President's at the Burbank Bowl, Little Father," Remo said worriedly to Chiun.
The old Korean had his own problems.
"They have edited me," Chiun moaned. "Me. And to add insult to injury, my own producers attempt to kill me with a boom. Oh, why did I ever think an assassin would be safe in this town?"
Remo returned his attention to Bindle and Marmelstein.
"How does the movie end?" he demanded.
"The President dies." Bindle nodded, trying to sell Remo on the concept. "Great dramatic scene. Lance Wallace gets sworn in on the spot as the next Commander in Chief. Perfect setup for the sequel."
Remo wheeled to Chiun. "We've got to get to the Burbank Bowl," he insisted sharply.
"Gladly," Chiun responded bitterly. "My only wish before I shake the dust of this heathen village from my sandals forever is to mete out justice to the mendacious Quintly Tortilli."
Scrambling, Bindle knelt on the desk. "By justice, you don't mean, by any chance, killing Quintly?"
"I will feed him his own lying heart."
"Heart feeding is bad, Bruce," Bindle said out of the corner of his mouth.
"You can't kill him just yet," Bruce Marmelstein said quickly. "Not till he's finished tonight's filming. As it is, it's already gonna be a bitch getting this puppy in theaters in two weeks."
"But if he does finish tonight, he's guaranteed us 125 million by Memorial Day," Hank Bindle argued hastily. "Even if it tanks afterward, that'll carry us through another hundred million, domestic."
"And even halfway decent word of mouth could push us over three hundred million before foreign, pay cable or video," Marmelstein supplied rapidly. "And a real dead President bumps foreign box office out of the solar system."
"Bottom line, Chiun, baby," Bindle concluded hurriedly. "Presidents come and Presidents go, but you keep turning out dynamite scripts like Die Down IV, and you and Taurus'll be counting Oscar gold for years to come."
Sweating anxiously, the two Taurus cochairs studied the Master of Sinanju's reaction, Bindle with one bloodshot eye closed.
The wizened Asian turned a narrowed eye to his pupil. "Is it possible for a film to survive the deaths of the executives in charge of the project?" he asked.
Remo was already edging toward the door. "Little Father, every time a Hollywood honcho dies, an angel gets his wings," he answered quickly.
Both executives still squatted on Bruce Marmelstein's desk, looks of anxious fear on their tan faces. They seemed oblivious to Remo's words, focused as they were on the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun stood silent before them, a figure of solemn contemplation.
In a move so swift it did not have time to startle, the old Korean's hands suddenly shot up.
Bindle and Marmelstein held their collective breath. Fearful, fascinated eyes stared with rapt attention at two extended index fingernails.
Chiun paused an instant-an orchestra conductor holding a note a beat too long.
A flash. Nails dropping, thrusting forward. Puncturing soft abdominal tissue. A jerking blur. Chiun's bloodless nails retreated to his gold kimono sleeves.
With twin gasps, Bindle and Marmelstein looked down in time to see their bellies yawn open in sideway smiles. Slick red organs slopped out onto the cold metal desk. Frantic faces looked to Chiun in desperation.
"We'll give you points," Bindle gasped. With one hand, he was trying to hold in the last of his trailing internal organs. The other palm was braced helplessly on the desk.
Chiun spun away, gliding swiftly across the office. Remo was already pushing the door open. Marmelstein toppled to the floor. "No writer gets points," he panted weakly. "We'll give you ten off the top."
"We already told him ten," Bindle wheezed faintly.
"Twenty. "
Remo and Chiun were already gone.
From the top of the desk, Hank Bindle looked down with glazed eyes at his dying partner. "Net?" he panted.
"Gross."
It wasn't clear if Marmelstein was talking about film profits or the fact that they had each just collapsed into the slimy sacks of their own internal organs.
And in another moment, nothing mattered to them at all.
Chapter 31
Cameras clicked like a hundred crazed crickets as Quintly Tortilli exited the main door of the Burbank Bowl. His pointy cheekbones and chin seemed more prominent in the presence of the tight rictal smile he gave the paparazzi.