Remo shook his head. "'This isn't art," he informed the youthful executive. "Art is a statue in the Louvre. Art is the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Art is a painting of the Virgin Mary that looks like the Virgin Mary."
"We did a movie about her." Shawn nodded. "Updated the whole Christ mythology. Mary was a whore in Canada who wanted to get an abortion. We almost got the jury prize at Sundance for that."
He had hardly finished speaking when he felt another sharp pain. This one in his ring finger. As the sound of yet another cracking bone filled his ears, Shawn swore he saw a flash of movement this time. Remo's hand returned to his side.
"What the hell was that for?" Shawn cried.
"All the nuns at St. Theresa's Orphanage," Remo said. "Okay, so you don't know who's behind this. You the owner?"
"No," Shawn answered quickly, hiding the rest of his fingers below his desk. "We're sponsored by a consortium of investors out of Hollywood. I don't even know who they are."
"You don't know who your own boss is?" Remo asked doubtfully. "How'd you get the job?"
"I-" Shawn stopped dead.
A look of inspiration. Almost delight. Shawn shot to his feet. He winced at the pain in his hand. "I'll show you," the independent film executive enthused. He bounded from behind his desk. As he headed for the door, his face held all the enthusiasm of a Roman centurion who was about to shove a Christian into the mouth of a ravenous lion.
THE BUTCHER, THE BAKER AND THE CANDLESTICK MAKER was the type of film no one would ever see even after all the major film critics in America placed it on their year-end ten-best lists.
As Shawn Allen Morris guided him onto the Butcher set, Remo was first surprised by the lighting. He doubted anything being shot in the shadowy Seattle supermarket parking lot would be visible once the film was developed.
A grisly orgy was taking place on a pile of rotting garbage. Softly chugging pumps spurted red goo from nozzles buried under latex in the faux-mutilated corpses of five deathly still actresses.
Guiding the actors off-camera was a thin figure in a purple polyester suit. His back to Remo, he was hunched beside a camera watching the scene play out in all its lurid glory. As Remo approached, the man raised a hand, slicing it down sharply.
"And ...cut! Fucking beautiful! Perfect! That's a wrap everybody! Dailies at my place by midnight. And don't lose them in the fucking cab."
When he spun around, triumphant, Remo saw that he was wearing a flowered disco-era shirt open to the navel. Gold chains hung in layers over his mottled black chest hair. Surprise bloomed full on Quintly Tortilli's knotted face.
"Morris, you idiot, this is a closed set," he barked.
"He's with the MPAA, Quintly," Shawn Allen Morris confided, aiming an unnaturally crooked finger at Remo. The oily rag from the car that he'd wrapped around the digit unspooled. On the cloth, the yellow, grease-smeared image of Wee-Wee the TeeVee-Fattie beamed at Tortilli. Wincing, Shawn rewrapped his makeshift bandage around his broken fingers.
"What the hell happened to you?" Tortilli didn't wait for a response. He wheeled to Remo. "And since when do you MPAA ratings fascists kamikaze a movie that's still in production? You go back to those fossilized dictators in Hollywood and tell them they can shove their butcher knives. Every single instance of the word fuck in this film is artistically essential. I'll release it without a fucking MPAA rating if I have to. I'm holding a fucking mirror up to society, man. Deal with it." Eyes wild, Tortilli's pointy chin trembled with passion.
Once the diatribe had reached its passionate conclusion, Remo extended a single, uninterested finger at the panting Quintly Tortilli. He looked at Shawn Allen Morris. "Who the hell is this?"
Shawn gasped. "That's Quintly Tortilli," he hissed. When Remo's expression failed to change, Shawn pitched his horrified voice low. "The Quintly Tortilli. Only the most famous director in America Quintly Tortilli."
"Oh." It was clear Remo still didn't know who on earth the director was. "He ever do anything good?"
Shawn's nervous eyes grew wider. He glanced at Quintly Tortilli, who was now glaring more than enough hatred for both Remo and Shawn.
"He won an Oscar for Penny Dreadful," Shawn instructed hoarsely. His eyes pleaded with Remo to recognize Tortilli. Even if he had to pretend.
It was the movie title that finally sparked recognition in Remo's eyes. "You mean he's responsible for the piece of garbage that revived Jann Revolta's movie career?"
Shawn Allen Morris felt his stomach collapse into his bowels. "Is that the phone?" he announced abruptly. And with that, he turned and ran for all he was worth. As he bounded back to the highway, his filthy bandage flapped a TeeVee-Fattie flag at the air in his wake.
Turning from Shawn's retreating form, Tortilli crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay, storm trooper of the Hollywood thought police, what do you want?" he demanded.
"For you to promise me you're not going to resurrect Gabe Kaplan, too," Remo said. "Barring that, a list of Cabbagehead's backers will do."
Tortilli snickered loudly. "Fuck you," he offered.
He turned and walked away from Remo. Or tried to. When he attempted to take a step, his foot froze above the ground. Something held him firmly in place.
When he looked down, he found a hand wrapped around his neckful of gold chains.
"Look, I don't even want to be here," Remo said.
As he spoke, Quintly Tortilli felt himself being lifted into the air. Remo was using the director's necklaces like a handle. A knot of linked gold jutted from Remo's hand.
"I wanted to stay home," Remo continued, not a hint of strain on his face. "But I'm being punished because I've been too picky about boring assignments."
Tortilli stretched his toes. They didn't reach the ground. Arm extended, Remo was holding him a good six inches off the damp parking lot.
"On top of that, I've gotta make sure my boss doesn't find out about any of this freaking hush-hush movie junk."
"Chlckkkkggghhh..." said Quintly Tortilli.
"What?" Remo asked, distracted. "Oh, yeah." Reaching over with his free hand, he swatted the director in the shoulder.
Tortilli felt the entire revolving world screech to a halt. As the Earth stopped, he alone began to spin. It was like an amusement park ride gone wild. He twirled and twirled and twirled in place until his brain felt as if it would spiral out his ear. The parking lot around him turned into a smeared horizon of indistinct blots.
He was moving too fast to even vomit. Centrifugal force kept his bile-charged food in his stomach.
It seemed that he was spinning forever. After an eternity of twirling, the blurs around him finally began to coalesce back into recognizable shapes.
Quintly dangled woozily above the ground. Distant buildings rolled in waves.
"Not that I should really care one way or the other about his stupid movie deal," Remo continued without missing a beat. "Smith'll find out sooner or later."
Remo was still holding Tortilli's necklaces. The chains bit into the director's neck. His face was purple.
"Ghhhhkkhhhh..." Tortilli gagged. The choking pressure made his head feel it was about to burst. Vomit was trapped in his throat at a point just below the gold knot.
"What?" Remo asked, annoyed.
"Ggggg ..." Tortilli begged.
"Oh. Save it for after the return trip," Remo advised.
Another swat to the shoulder. Tortilli felt himself spinning back in the opposite direction. The pressure at his neck lessened as the chains uncoiled. In less than thirty seconds, he'd twirled back to the starting point.
"Now," Remo said, dropping the reeling director to his feet, "same question as before. Cabbagehead's backers. And this time, try to limit gratuitous use of the F word."